


The Wit of the Bee

by Melibe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Bad Decisions, Beekeeper Beelzebub, Courtroom Drama, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Custody Battle, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Happy Ending, I cannot overemphasize how many bad decisions are made in this fic, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kid Fic, Multi, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Really they don't spend a lot of time in the courtroom though, She/Her Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Unplanned Pregnancy, Unsafe Sex, but its fic so it all turns out ok, so happy I promise, yes both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/pseuds/Melibe
Summary: Eleven-year-old Adam has a great family: genderfluid mom Crowley, flamingly gay dad AZ, and cousin Bee, his birth parent. And he has two great ambitions: getting his debate team to nationals, and convincing his parents to buy him a puppy. But Adam's idyllic life gets knocked sideways when he finds out his biological father is rich, powerful, andwants him back.Baize (Bee to a chosen few) is content to live alone with their beehives, tolerating periodic visits from Adam and his parents. They don’t want to think about last year’s drunk kiss with AZ’s brother Gabriel, and theyreallydon’t want to think about their old flame Luke Starr. But when Luke sends a letter staking his claim on Adam, Baize knows they’re in for a fight. And Gabriel, damn him, knows the best lawyers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Dagon (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 93
Kudos: 130
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: I don’t have time for another WIP.  
> also me: Look, life is very stressful right now, writing fic is a healthy coping mechanism, and what if Beelzebub was a human beekeeper?  
> still me: . . . FINE.
> 
> Some explanation of the tags: Beelzebub’s character is nonbinary and uses they/them in the present; the flashbacks in the first couple of chapters are set before they come out, when Bee was using she/her. CW for use of their deadname and for past unsafe sex, drug use, self-destructive behavior, manipulative and predatory behavior, and just generally lots of bad decisions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How should your inspiration be less than the bee’s?_  
>  _Haven’t you read the words_ We have given the fount of abundance?  
>  _Why, then, are you dry; why have you remained thirsty?_  
>  _\- Rumi_

Baize wipes sweat from the back of their neck, pushes the bangs out of their eyes, then continues wrestling hive boxes into position. The sun on their black hair feels like it’s cooking their brains. They should’ve grabbed a hat on the way out, but they weren’t thinking straight, still fucked up on useless adrenaline from the letter than arrived this morning.

They also didn’t expect to find a huge swarm on the cherry tree, requiring actual physical labor to collect.

March is usually too early for swarms, but the unseasonably warm weather must have triggered this one. With a final shove, Baize gets the hive settled next to the tree. Now they just have to scoop the languid, buzzing mass off the trunk and into the boxes.

Oh, they might bitch about it, but Baize likes to be outside, working until they sweat, surrounded by the heat and the hum. As the owner and sole employee of Hell’s Bees, they spent most of the winter putting their financial degree to use—negotiating with vendors who sell their honey and pollen, advising clients who rent hives or want to start their own. That part of the work is satisfying in its own way, but it’s nothing like the wild _aliveness_ of the bees themselves.

Baize slides their bare hand into the swarm and pauses for a moment as hundreds of soft bodies and fluttering wings caress their skin. It’s warm. Intimate. Safe. There’s virtually no danger of getting stung—bees gorge themselves on honey before swarming and, without a home, they have nothing to defend.

Baize knows that feeling. Not being too full to sting; they could eat all the honey in all their hives and it still wouldn’t sweeten their disposition. But there was a time when they felt they had nothing to fight for, nothing worth protecting. A time when they would have read Luke’s letter and thought, _Take whatever you like, I don’t give a shit._

Baize transfers the swarm to the hive, handful by gentle handful, bees dripping from every digit. Watching the insects explore their new home, Baize is reminded that bees don’t swarm out of existential nihilism. No, these bees flew off with their queen in eager anticipation, trusting that they could make a new life for themselves. And that—

That hits close to home, too. After all, it was Baize who dragged Crowley and the baby out here to Tadfield so they could all start over. Things weren’t great at first, but eventually they found kid-friendly housing, jobs better than the ones they’d left behind. Then Crowley found AZ, and AZ fell in love with him and the baby both. Boom, happy ending, drop the curtains, stop the cameras.

But now Luke wants—wants to take—

“Bee! Hey, Bee!”

Baize looks up to see Adam racing across the field, and in the distance behind him, Crowley and AZ getting out of the car. So school’s out already. Baize must have been working on the swarm longer than they realized.

Adam’s blond curls are getting longer, his eyes bright and sharp as ever. He doesn’t dress like either of his parents, not Crowley’s black-on-black emo style and not AZ’s tartan-and-cream cozy-sofa look. Adam wears jeans that are too big until they’re too small, and colorful t-shirts with messages that are either 100% earnest or 100% ironic.

Today’s shirt is a cheerful orange, screenprinted with calligraphy that reads _Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition_. Nice to see that kids can still appreciate the classics.

Crowley likes to complain that Adam, nearly twelve, has gotten too cool for everything, but Baize hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe because the open space on their property inspires Adam to race everywhere at top speed, like he did when he first learned to balance on two legs. Now those legs are nearly as long as Baize’s, even if he hasn’t quite reached their height. _Give it another year,_ they think as he slams into them, arms locked tight around their waist.

Baize isn’t much of a hugger, but certain rules get bent for Adam. They squeeze him back. “Hi, kid.”

“So what’s up? Mom says he has to talk to you about something but he won’t tell me what it is.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know.” Baize texted Crowley this morning, didn't give any details. They want him to read the letter for himself. Maybe Baize is overreacting. Maybe they can all have a laugh and throw it away.

“Don’t get excited, Adam,” they warn, seeing his eyes already alight with imagination. “It’s not something fun like a birthday party or a new puppy.”

“Fine, fine. I’m not forgetting about the puppy though.” Adam has been campaigning relentlessly on this subject for years. His gaze lands on the new hive. “Can I have some honey?”

“Not from this one, there’s no comb yet. I just collected a swarm.” Bee puts the lid on the box and gathers their tools. “Come on, let’s get your folks.”

Crowley and AZ have only made it halfway across the field, strolling hand in hand through the tall grass. Baize notes that Crowley’s hair is longer too, and although the soft wisps on AZ’s head are the same as ever, he’s wearing a _beard_. It’s exactly as adorable as the rest of him. Go fucking figure. Baize had no idea “adorable” was Crowley’s type until they saw him fall head over heels for this guy.

Crowley’s wearing his I’m-too-cool-to-smile-but-I’m-happy expression (and he wonders where Adam gets the attitude) while AZ is making up for it with his standard cherubic glow. When they reach Baize and Adam, Crowley wraps one arm around Baize’s shoulders. Another exception to the no-hugging rule. Baize and Crowley went through hell together.

“Hey, Bee.”

“Hey, Crow.”

“It’s good to see you, Baize,” says AZ warmly. “I hope we’re not interrupting your work. I did suggest we could wait at the house, but Adam—”

“It’s fine, I’m done.” Baize knows they sound curt. A few years ago it would have hurt AZ’s feelings, and Crowley would’ve had to run interference. But now AZ nods and smiles like they invited him in for tea and sandwiches.

If Baize were so inclined, they’d praise Allah that Crowley ended up with AZ. He deserves faith, hope, love—all the trite shit that sounds less trite when AZ spouts off about it. Crowley used to joke about being unforgiveable. Baize hasn’t had to listen to that garbage since he settled down with AZ.

The two of them remind Baize of the poetry their father used to read at bedtime, before the divorce when he was still around. _They are the privileged lovers who create a new world._

As for Baize, they’re fine on their own. They never wanted that kind of relationship with Crowley, and they don’t need it with anyone else, either. They have the bees, and a perfectly good vibrator.

“This weather’s ridiculous,” Crowley grumbles on the hike to the house. The gentle slope of the land is easy to miss on the downhill, less so heading back up. “It’s not s’posed to be hot in March.”

AZ squeezes his arm. “You’d be less liable to overheat if you wore something other than black.”

“You’re just trying to get my clothes off,” teases Crowley, predictably, and AZ, predictably, blushes.

Rolling their eyes, Baize feels a pang of—what? Jealousy? Envy? Fucking wistfulness? Shit, must be time for their annual Tinder hookup. They’ve gotten into the habit of using the app every spring, when flowers start to jizz pollen everywhere and you can’t touch a bee without getting plant spunk all over you. It’s the one season they need to get off with more than a toy.

Last year they didn’t take care of it early enough, leading to one of the more regrettable nights of their life. Four margaritas, one kiss, immeasurable humiliation. At least AZ’s brother hasn’t brought it up again. If they’re lucky, he never will.

Baize glances at AZ. The family resemblance wasn’t strong to begin with, and the beard makes him look even less like Gabriel. Thank fuck.

Instead of saying _that_ , they ask, “What’s up with all the extra hair?”

AZ wiggles like the proud papa he is. “Adam’s debate team is—well, you tell them, Adam!”

“We’re heading for nationals this year, it’ll be the first time for our school,” he explains. “So we made a pact, like in those old books, only instead of signing in blood we agreed not to cut our hair until we win. It was just me and the other kids, but then all our parents got excited and now they’re doing it too.”

“God, you’re a nerd _and_ a freak.” Baize shakes their head at Adam, and he grins. He knows they’re proud of him. He was always a smart kid, but speech and debate club was like a spark to gasoline. He’s the only sixth grader on the school’s team, and he can talk circles around the rest of them.

Baize briefly wonders what old books he was reading about blood rituals. AZ stocks the strangest titles in his second-hand bookstore. (Fuck’s sake, could one of the three of them not have a normal job with health benefits and a retirement plan? It’s fine, it’s fine, they’re all making it work in their own stubborn ways, but none of them can afford to start a college fund for Adam. He’ll have to get a full scholarship. He probably will. If he’s still—fuck.)

They’ve made it to the house so Baize kicks off their shoes and beckons Crowley into their office. Then they hesitate, looking at Adam.

AZ picks up on it right away. He rests a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s see if we can find some drinks and snacks for everyone.”

Adam looks at him, his feet inching toward Crowley and Baize. “ _Dad_.”

“ _Adam_.” AZ doesn’t do stern; he does implacable. With a sigh Adam shuffles after him into the kitchen.

Crowley frowns as he follows Baize into their office. “I don’t like hiding stuff from Adam. Why do you think he shouldn’t see this?”

“It’s about him, so he probably _should_ see it. But I don’t know if you want him to find out like this.” Baize snatches the envelope off their desk, resisting the urge to tear it to shreds, and tosses it to Crowley. “Look, I have no fucking clue, you figure it out. That’s why you’re his mom, not me.”

Crowley reads the return address. Then he pulls off his sunglasses and hangs them in the V of his shirt. Reads it again. “This is from Luke.”

Baize nods, biting back the instinctive _No shit._

Crowley slides out the letter, but doesn’t unfold it. “Have you—have you been in touch? I mean, before this?”

“No. This came out of fucking nowhere, as far as I’m concerned.” Maybe Baize internet-stalked Luke once or twice, on bad nights when memories climbed up their throat. Never to get in touch, just to see if there was anything to gloat over. A search for schadenfreude. They found articles about his first startup, then his second, and a profile in a men’s magazine with the headline “Rising Starr.” After that they gave up in disgust.

Baize hates that Luke was able to track them down as easily. It almost makes them wish they’d stayed offline, a recluse under a rock. But that would give him too much power over their life, when he doesn’t deserve any.

Crowley still hasn’t opened the letter. He pushes the artful auburn mess off his forehead, and Baize notices his hand shaking. He calls over his shoulder, “AZ? Adam?”

The two of them pile through the doorway so quickly it’s almost comical. Polite as he is, AZ can be a nosy bitch (and Baize loves him for it). “Yes, my dear?”

“What?” demands Adam at the same time.

“Bee wants to share this letter with us.” Somehow, Crowley’s pulling off his calm Mom-voice. “Let’s read it together, and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Adam, head bobbing up and down. He tucks up next to Crowley so he won’t miss anything, while AZ rests his chin on Crowley’s other shoulder.

Crowley unfolds the letter. The paper is so expensive it’s practically fabric, which makes Baize hate Luke even a little more. They already knew he was CFO at a Fortune 500, didn’t need to see it on his fancy fucking stationery.

Baize watches the other three read. They’ve committed it to memory.

 _Dear Bailey,_ (he fucking deadnamed them, should have known better, on the website it’s Baize Zebul)

_I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear from me, and even more relieved at my news. I’ve reached a level of financial security and personal stability that will allow me to provide for my son, and my wife and I are ready for him to live with us. I can offer generous compensation for the time and money you’ve spent on child care to date._

_I’m including a location and date for the transfer; I will expect you and the boy unless you respond promptly with a preferred alternative._

_Affectionately,_  
_Luke_

_P.S. If you’re still in touch with Crowley, by all means bring him. I’ll take you both out for drinks afterward. My wife can stay with the boy._

The paper slides out of Crowley’s fingers. Adam catches it before it hits the floor, squinting at it like a tricky school assignment. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Who’s this Luke guy?”

AZ takes Crowley’s hands. “My dear,” he begins, then apparently can’t think of anything else, so he says it again. “My dear.”

Crowley’s wide, unprotected eyes jump to Baize, to Adam, then back to AZ.

“We are _fucked_.”

–

TWELVE YEARS AGO

Bailey chose to study finance for three reasons: she was good at math, she wanted a practical career, and the finance student was the hottest upperclassman on the “How to Pick Your Major” panel. Hey, at least she was honest about it, right? His name was Luke. He was tall and lean, he wore a wicked white-toothed smile and long golden-brown curls, and he said vicious things that made everybody laugh.

So Bailey majored in finance, watched the stock market collapse, and graduated just in time for the Great Recession. Not a single company was hiring. 

Luckily, she’d been working part-time at a place called Devil’s Food Diner and had just been promoted to manager. Unluckily, she had student loans to pay off. Subsidized on-campus housing was no longer an option, and she’d be damned before she’d consider living with either parent.

“Move in with me,” said Luke, after listening to Bailey bitch about it one night at the local dive bar. He’d stayed at the university for a master’s degree and was now juggling a handful of consulting gigs while hunting for something more stable. “I could use help with rent, the slumlord hikes it every quarter. Come on, let’s subsidize each other.”

They weren’t dating, but they’d established that the attraction was mutual, and had acted on it more than once, so Luke’s suggestion came with clear subtext. Bailey thought about it while his hand slid up her leg. His smile was still wicked and his jokes were still vicious and she thought she might regret it, but when his fingers dipped into the crease between thigh and hip she said, “Yeah, all right.”

Crowley joined them less than a month later. He worked at Devil’s Food too, a biology student one year behind Bailey, sharp and clever in a way that she found easy to get along with. She watched his long fingers with their black nail polish stack the menus artistically, and she watched the wiggle of his very fine ass as he led people to their tables.

He liked to charm customers and work as little as possible, so she was surprised to find him in the kitchen one evening, slicing tomatoes with alarming enthusiasm. “What a massacre,” she commented. “The hell’s gotten into you?”

“Lost my scholarship.” He muttered something about asking too many questions and isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in college and fuck higher education, anyway.

“So you’re, what? Dropping out?”

“Dropped out.” Slice. “Past tense.” Slice. “Nowhere to live.” Slice. “Brought all my stuff here.”

That explained the duffel bags in the office. Bailey had been ready to ream out whoever left them there, to throw them in the dumpster if no one owned up. Now she just took the knife away from Crowley before he sliced off one of those pretty fingers.

She knew better than to ask if he could go back home, live with his parents. People didn’t just forget about that option, then light up with gratitude when you mentioned it. _Wow, great idea, I have a wonderful relationship with my family and they would definitely help me out, can’t believe I didn’t think of it before._

“You can stay with me,” Bailey said.

“Yeah? You got an extra bed?”

“We have one bed.” Bailey curled up the corner of her mouth as she slanted him a look. “With two people already sleeping in it.”

Crowley’s eyes raked her over. She knew she didn’t look her best, in boring slacks and a cheap blouse, hair pulled back too tight and nails bitten ragged, but she didn’t give a shit and apparently neither did Crowley. He grinned. “Okay, boss. Make it three.”

On her break, Bailey snapped a picture that showed off Crowley’s snake tattoo and sent it to Luke. He had a thing for tattoos, was always trying to persuade Bailey to get one. _I finally got ink for you_ , she texted. _It’s just on someone else’s body._

 _Bring the hottie home,_ demanded Luke. The deal was sealed.

Between the three of them they could usually cover rent, even though Bailey’s and Crowley’s jobs stayed frustratingly part-time. After rent, Bailey insisted that food was the next priority, and yelled at the boys for spending on anything else. But she’d take a hit if they brought home booze or weed or something stronger.

At least the sex was free. They usually fucked in pairs—whoever happened to be home, awake and interested—but sometimes as a threesome, and sometimes Luke told Bailey and Crowley what to do while he watched.

Occasionally one of them would bring somebody else home, and they’d share or not, depending on the mood. That was how Bailey met Dagon; Luke brought her back from a party and told Bailey, “She’s mostly a lesbian, I thought you two could have some fun.”

It was weird, but also kind of hot. Dagon, who was definitely high, slipped an arm around Bailey’s waist and giggled, “Only if you’re up for it.”

Luke answered, “She’s always up for it, aren’t you, Bailey?”

Bailey shrugged, and kissed the girl.

Dagon’s hands were cool and her legs were smooth, which was an interesting feeling for Bailey, who didn’t shave and was used to Luke and Crowley who didn’t shave either. Dagon’s sharp teeth left little bite marks on Bailey’s shoulders, but other than that she was gentle, and she fell asleep curled against Bailey’s chest. Luke jacked off watching them, then spooned behind Bailey, one long arm reaching past her to rest on Dagon’s hip.

With no room in the bed, Crowley had to sleep draped over the armchair. Bailey felt a little sorry for him, but mostly she felt smothered. She would have traded if she could.

In the morning, sober Dagon wasn’t impressed with the lack of food in the apartment, so she went home for breakfast. Before she left, she kissed Bailey and said, “You should think about moving out of this hellhole,” which made Luke laugh too loudly and slap her ass.

Dagon also left a card for the still-sleeping Crowley, who’d rambled during the night about his dream job in the reptile house of a zoo. As it turned out, Dagon worked at a tropical fish store that also sold turtles and snakes. _We could use a reptile guy,_ she’d scribbled on the back of the card.

When he woke up enough to read it, Crowley got more excited than Bailey had ever seen him. He borrowed her phone (she suspected that the story of Crowley Not Having a Phone was connected to the story of Crowley’s Extremely Shitty Family, but she didn’t pry) and within a week he was making extra money scrubbing terrariums and bagging crickets.

But one more part-time job between three people wasn’t enough to pay for health insurance. Or doctor visits. Or prescriptions. Which meant Bailey hadn’t been on birth control since her student supply ran out.

It should have been fine, because they had to be safe anyway, with everyone sleeping around. They always used condoms, except when Luke got caught up in the moment and _Fuck baby I’ve got to be inside you right now, fuck you’re so wet, let me just, it’s okay, a few more seconds and then I’ll get, oh fuck yes._

They always used condoms, except when Crowley found a case of wine on sale and got drunk off his ass and still managed a boner, and for some reason this was the funniest thing in the world. Bailey rode him bare, both of them laughing like maniacs, _It’s not like you’re gonna get off anyway, my God how are you even hard with this much booze in you, it’s fucking unnatural, oh shit shit shit fuck._

They always used condoms, except when they ran out, and the next paycheck went to food (Bailey “Am I the Only Goddamn Grown-up Here” Zebul) and clothes (Anthony “There is an Actual Dress Code at the Diner in Case You Didn’t Notice” Crowley) and high-speed internet (Luke “I Need it for Work, Don’t Look at Me Like That or I’ll—” Starr).

So it shouldn’t have been any kind of surprise when Bailey started feeling like she couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, started spending every afternoon on the bathroom floor. But they were all idiots, so Bailey just said _I got the flu_ and Luke said _Tough luck_ , and Crowley rubbed her back without saying anything.

It was Dagon who, after hearing about it from Crowley for two months, showed up at the door with a plastic-wrapped package and said, _Pee on this stick you fucking moron._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The water is stopped and the riverbed cleansed,_   
>  _So that purer water might flow._   
>  _The flesh is cut open to draw out the arrow—_   
>  _so that fresh skin might heal the wound._   
>  _\- Rumi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a two-chapter update to make up for the long wait! I hope you enjoy! From here on out, I’m aiming for monthly updates. Progress on this fic owes a huge debt to the IB crew, who offer writing support and brilliant ideas at all hours of the night and day.
> 
> CW: The first half of this chapter contains references to family separation. The second half (after “twelve years later”) contains sexual harassment, very brief physical assault, gender dysphoria, implications of past verbal and physical abuse, and non-graphic childbirth. If you want to skip all that shit, I’ll put a plot summary in the endnotes.

Crowley isn’t sure how they get home, even though he’s the one driving. 

Normally Crowley doesn’t drive on autopilot. Normally he’s hyperaware of the resistance in each pedal, the contour of the steering wheel, the weight of the gear shift against his palm. After his birth family did their level best to steal the Bentley from him, he’ll never take her for granted.

But tonight the car could burst into flames and he’s not sure he would notice.

At Baize’s house, Crowley had somehow fumbled through an explanation to Adam. Now the kid is sitting quietly in the backseat. Crowley checks the rear-view mirror more than he needs to, just to catch a glimpse of him.

Adam is smart and funny and kind. He’s more cognizant of humanity’s faults and foibles than most adults Crowley knows, yet his optimism burns like the heart of a star. He organizes protests for civil rights and environmental causes, writes and illustrates his own comic books, and gets in constant trouble for his radical approach to distributive justice.

Crowley loves him so much it hurts.

He’s always known that Adam wasn’t his, that he only had the kid on loan. But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear _time’s up, your turn’s over_. It still feels like carving out his heart.

Crowley looks in the mirror again and sees Baize’s dirty shoe up on the middle seat, between them and Adam. Usually they’d be doing it to irritate Crowley, and he’d snap at them to get it off the leather. Not tonight.

Baize is in the car because AZ invited them over for dinner with the firm assertion, “We can all think more clearly with full tummies.” Baize agreed without scoffing at AZ’s ridiculous word choice, so Crowley knows they’re every bit as fucked up as he is.

“What’s this place?” Baize demands when Crowley parks the car. “You guys moved into a mansion when I wasn’t looking?”

“Last job of the day. Won’t take long. You can wait in the car.” 

Of course his last job would be the Dowlings’. The universe needs to back the fuck off Crowley’s feelings today. He levers himself out onto the sidewalk and AZ joins him, one hand at his elbow as if Crowley’s some kind of invalid.

“Hey, you’re doing Greasy Johnson’s house! Can I come too?” asks Adam, already unbuckling.

“Your classmate’s name is Johnson, no modifiers necessary,” AZ answers, saving Crowley from a decision he’s poorly equipped to handle. “And no, you may not go in and leave a spitball or something equally unpleasant on his pillow. Stay here.” He glances at Baize, slouched against the car door. “If that’s—”

“It’s fine. C’mon, Adam, tell me every torture you’ve thought of inflicting on Greasy Johnson, and I’ll tell you how to make it ten times worse.”

Crowley almost smiles as he unlocks the front door and leads AZ inside. The Dowlings were his first clients, back when he came up with the idea of offering in-home plant and aquarium care. The schedule was flexible, he could take baby Adam along, and it let him put a dent in the bills mounting up as Baize tried to support all three of them.

And the Dowlings have been Crowley’s cash cow ever since. They keep a private conservatory and two fancy reef tanks, the latter of which existed solely to impress guests until their younger son started getting serious about tropical fish. Crowley might offer to mentor him, if he and Adam ever resolve their mysterious feud.

During the Dowlings’ frequent trips out of town, they pay Crowley for daily visits to feed and water everything. When they’re home, they pay him for regular maintenance. It was during a maintenance visit that he met AZ, ten years ago. 

AZ had been tutoring the older Dowling kid, Warlock. (Crowley and AZ have spent more than one drunken night speculating on the origin of the Dowling boys’ names.) And now Warlock’s off at college. It would make Crowley feel old, if AZ turning forty last year hadn’t already done that.

Of course, AZ himself isn’t old. He’s a perpetual cherub, never mind that he was born years before Crowley.

Tonight AZ must be performing some kind of magic trick to keep touching Crowley at all times. (Crowley isn’t complaining. He likes having his own personal guardian angel.) AZ’s hand is on his back as Crowley feeds and waters and checks temperature and salinity. AZ’s hand is on his knee in the car, on the ride home. AZ’s fingers interlace with Crowley’s as they walk into the house.

Crowley pauses in the living room. This stupid little house is far from perfect, but he likes it. It’s overflowing with books and plants and baseball mitts and drawings of puppies, and most importantly, it has AZ and Adam in it.

But now Crowley looks around and imagines everything Luke could give Adam that Crowley can’t. A room that’s bigger than a closet. A roof that doesn’t leak, for Christ’s sake. Some previous tenant (whom Crowley would like to curse to the eighth circle of Hell) installed a “skylight” through the expedient approach of cutting out some roof and sticking in a window. Rain is a problem. So is the Southwest summer heat. Sometimes they cover the skylight with blankets to keep the house cooler.

Luke surely has an enormous house with perfect temperature control. Adam could have a bedroom and a game room and his own bathroom. Luke wouldn’t have to wonder where he’d find the money for Adam’s plane ticket when the debate team goes to nationals. Luke could buy Adam any puppy he wanted, and pay for training and toys and all that shit.

“My dear, it’s going to be all right,” says AZ, squeezing his hand. “We’re Adam’s parents, and we won’t let anyone take him away.”

“ _I_ won’t let anyone take me away,” grumbles Adam. He’s unpacking his backpack in his usual haphazard fashion, sifting through geologic layers of homework assignments, comics, candy wrappers.

Crowley looks at him, this human for whom he’s been the primary caretaker since the minute he came into this world, and feels a rush of both pride and despair. “What if it’s not up to us?”

“We are not powerless,” says AZ firmly. His fingers relax a little, then squeeze again. “How about if I call Gabriel? This isn’t so different from the cases they handle at Civil Angels. I’m sure he’ll have some good advice.”

Baize performs an audible eye-roll from the couch, where they’re flipping through one of Adam’s books. But they don’t use any words, so Crowley says, “Yeah, okay, call him.”

Crowley’s voice is hollow. He doesn’t think good advice is going to make Luke go away. He needs to show AZ how thoroughly they are fucked, so he opens the hall closet and starts digging into boxes of old paperwork.

AZ follows, keeping his hand on Crowley’s shoulder as he makes the call. Crowley listens without hearing anything. The first box doesn’t have what he’s looking for, so he pulls out the second.

“Is Uncle Gabe coming over?” asks Adam, when AZ hangs up.

“Yes, as soon as he can get away from work.”

“At least we’ll have something pretty to look at while we stew in this shit,” mumbles Baize. “Good ol’ Huncle Babe.”

Adam gags. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

Baize almost smiles. “So does he.”

AZ looks at the watch that he keeps wearing despite the fact that Crowley finally convinced him to carry his phone around. “Goodness, it’s gotten late! I really should start dinner.” He glances toward the kitchen but doesn’t move, his fingers still a warm anchor on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Forget it. I’ll order pizza.” Baize pulls out their phone. “What do you want, Adam? Flies and maggots or just plain maggots?”

“Bee! Gross! Gimme the menu. I’ll order.”

As they quarrel companionably about toppings, AZ asks Crowley softly, “Shall I stay right here, my dear? Or would you like a cup of tea?”

Crowley grunts in favor of tea. AZ will pour Zen Calm or some shit that Crowley would never make for himself but will genuinely help him to relax.

By the time AZ is placing teacups on the table in the corner of the living room that pretends to be a dining room, Crowley has found something to put there too. Everyone gathers around.

“This is my birth certificate?” Adam considers the piece of paper dubiously. “How come I’ve never seen it before?”

“Kid, you’re lucky I could even find it now.” Crowley sinks into a chair and lets his head fall over the back of it. AZ pushes the angel-wing mug closer to him. It’s the one AZ always uses, but now he’s drinking from one of the chipped thrift-store mugs instead.

“But Mom, it doesn’t have your name on it. Just Bee’s dead name and this Luke guy.”

“That’s because Luke was the one doing the talking.” Crowley drinks some tea, but the bitterness stays in his mouth after the tea slips down his throat. Luke was always the one doing the talking.

“Mercy Hospital,” murmurs AZ, leaning over the paper, reading glasses perched on his nose. Despite a history of obsession with those glasses, right now Crowley can barely register how cute they are.

“But you said you guys didn’t know. The egg was Bee’s, but the sperm could’ve been yours or this Luke guy’s, right?” Adam has accepted this with astonishing calm. Crowley would like to take it as a credit to his parenting skills, raising a sex-positive and non-judgmental kid.

Except he actually would like Adam to judge the hell out of Luke. Adam’s insistence on referring to him as “this Luke guy” is a great start.

“Yeah, ‘s right,” says Crowley.

“So why couldn’t they put all three of you on here?”

AZ smiles wryly. “History, tradition, limited perspectives and small-mindedness, my dear.” The answer is familiar enough that Adam mouths along once he gets started.

“Also, the nurse was a total space cadet,” says Baize.

“Anyway, the point is.” Crowley swigs his tea. “The point is, this is the official document that says who your parents are. And _he’s_ on it. Not me and Dad.”

“That’s stupid,” scoffs Adam. “You guys don’t need a piece of paper to be my parents. You just are.”

“I’m so glad you think that, Adam.” AZ beams. “I feel the same way.”

Crowley scowls at AZ. He shouldn’t look so happy when everything’s going to hell. “But we never properly adopted him. Not legally.”

“Didn’t we start filling out some papers for that, a few years back? I’m quite sure—”

“Yeah, angel, we _started_. Did you ever finish them? Because I sure didn’t.”

“Oh dear,” says AZ. “No, I don’t believe that I did.” He sets down his teacup and worries his lower lip with his teeth. “I’ve always been so awful at paperwork.”

“That’s God’s honest truth,” booms a cheerful voice from the front door.

“Uncle Gabe!” Adam’s face lights up when he sees the boxes Gabriel is balancing on one hand. “ _You’re_ delivering the pizza?”

Baize catches Crowley’s eye and says under their breath, “I’ve watched that one.”

Crowley makes a face. Baize isn’t wrong about Gabriel’s good looks, but he doesn’t do anything for Crowley. He’s just too big. His smile, his hands, his voice. He makes their little house feel cramped instead of cozy.

But Crowley has to respect the man’s work as director of the nonprofit Civil Angels—they provide legal counsel to immigrants and inmates, and push for democracy reform in a dozen different ways.

And anyway, Adam likes him.

Gabriel is chuckling as he hands over the pizza boxes. “I just happened to pull up at the same time as the delivery guy. I offered to take these off his hands.”

“You didn’t pay for it, did you?” AZ flutters in and out of the kitchen with napkins and plates and glasses of water.

“Just the tip,” says Gabriel.

Baize drags over the kitchen stool for a chair, and glowers at him. “I tipped when I ordered.”

“Then they’ll get a little extra. No harm done, eh, Buzz?”

Baize lets out a wordless breath that manages to imply there’s a great deal of harm done, but they won’t deign to argue about it anymore. They flop a slice of pizza onto their plate and then stare at it, as though they can’t quite remember what eating is for.

Or maybe Crowley’s projecting. He finishes his tea and punctures crust bubbles while Adam inhales his first slice and AZ tucks in neatly with a knife and fork. “Won’t you join us, Gabriel?” he asks politely.

“No thanks, there’s a dinner with a big donor tonight. I’ve only got a few minutes. Can I take a look at this?” He extracts Adam’s birth certificate from between pizza boxes and scans it, still standing. There isn’t another chair, but Crowley refuses to feel bad about that. Gabriel is perfectly welcome to sit on the couch or the floor.

After his second slice of pizza, Adam slows down enough to ask, “Can’t you guys just adopt me right now? I bet the forms are all online.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m afraid it’ll be a longer process than that.” AZ sets down his fork so he can squeeze Adam’s shoulder. “And—please don’t think my failure to fill out forms has anything to do with how much I wanted—how much I want—to be your father. I just—”

“Nah, I get it.” Adam shrugs. “It’s like how I forgot to sign up for baseball last spring even though I really, really love it.”

“Yes.” AZ smiles. “Although, as heretical as this may sound, I think I love you even more than you love baseball.”

Gabriel hands the birth certificate back to Crowley. “Adam’s right, of course, you should get moving on the adoption as soon as possible.” His fingers drum on the wall behind him. “Unfortunately, you’re going to need this Starr person to sign off on it.”

Crowley thinks _this Starr person_ might be even better than _this Luke guy_. Deliciously dismissive. He glances at Baize to see if they enjoyed it too, but they’re staring aggressively at their phone.

So Crowley tunes back in to what Gabriel’s saying. “. . . . might make trouble before you can get it all processed. He proposed a meeting in, what, two weeks?”

“More than a meeting,” says Crowley, mouth suddenly dry. “That’s when he wants Adam to go live with him.”

Adam makes a rude sound. AZ doesn’t scold him. “It’s patently ridiculous,” he says instead. “Even if Adam had any interest in moving—”

“I don’t—”

“Of course it’s ridiculous.” Gabriel is looking at his phone now, too, and Crowley takes a moment to be offended. Why did AZ even call him if he isn’t going to take this seriously—

Then Gabriel looks up again, and his expression reminds Crowley that this is what he _does_. “Starr will have a lawyer, with a case prepared to show he’s the more capable parent. He’s wealthy and married to a woman, which most judges will consider points in his favor.”

“That’s not fair!” exclaims Adam.

“No, it isn’t.” Gabriel looks between Baize, Crowley, and AZ. “You should have a lawyer, too.”

“We can’t afford a lawyer,” says Baize angrily. “What the fuck kind of privileged . . .”

They trail off. At first Crowley isn’t sure why, but then he notices.

AZ is giving Gabriel puppy-dog eyes. He’s giving his _brother_ the _puppy-dog eyes_. Crowley has never witnessed this before. He holds his breath, fascinated to find out what will happen.

What happens is that Gabriel caves in less than five seconds. “Fine,” he groans. “Fine, AZ, I’ll talk to Michael. She’s really busy. We have a lot of cases right now. But I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you, Gabriel,” says AZ sweetly.

“All right, I have to go spruce up for the donors. I’ll be in touch.” He gives Adam an affectionate rub to the head. “Get a haircut, kid. You’re all shaggy.”

“Fuck off,” snaps Baize. “Don’t tell him to get a fucking haircut.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Gabriel raises his hands in immediate surrender. “Maybe you could cut back on the R-rated language, though, just a thought.”

Crowley can practically hear the growl deep in Baize’s chest, can almost see them extending their claws. He knows their reaction to stress as well as he knows his own. Crowley retreats, shuts down, can’t talk. Baize digs in, lashes out, attacks.

Baize and Gabriel have never gotten along particularly well, but over the years Crowley thought they’d settled into a casual detente. Then last year it all blew up again, and Baize won’t tell him why.

Crowley has theories. One: they fucked. Two: Gabriel said something truly offensive. Crowley would, of course, have to destroy him, with apologies to AZ. But if that were the case, he can’t imagine Baize tolerating Gabriel in the same room, much less continuing to call him Huncle Babe.

So, back to the first theory: they fucked. He’d like to be happy for them, but it must not be that simple.

Fortunately, Crowley doesn’t have to play peacekeeper this time. Adam grabs the empty pizza boxes and says, “Hey Bee, could you get the kitchen door for me?” While the two of them are outside, performing origami to fit greasy cardboard into the trash, AZ walks Gabriel to the front door.

“This is absurd, isn’t it?” says AZ, as Gabriel puts on his shoes. “Who would try to take a child away from his mother?”

Gabriel looks up incredulously, like after all these years he still can’t believe how innocent his brother is. Crowley can sympathize. “The fucking government, that’s who,” says Gabriel. “And, apparently, Luke Starr.”

Then he steps outside. The screen door bangs shut after him. Seconds later, Adam dives in from the kitchen and throws his arms around Crowley from behind, the way he used to do when he was little. With his face mashed into Crowley’s shoulder blades, he says, “We’re gonna be okay, Mom?” It’s a statement inflected like a question.

“Yeah, kid.” Crowley swallows. He’s told plenty of lies in his life, but none are even in the same galaxy as this one. “We’re gonna be okay.”

* * *

TWELVE YEARS AGO

Bailey hadn’t used the pregnancy test. Crowley knew, because he saw it unopened in the trash.

But when Dagon asked, he said, “Yeah, we’re taking care of it.” What else could he say? He wanted to get back to cleaning the tanks, with his earbuds blasting Queen and his favorite snake draped over his shoulders.

It was easy not to talk about it, because Bailey refused to. When she stopped feeling nauseous and returned to eating regular meals, she ignored any commentary on her altered palate, even when Crowley spluttered at her choice of fresh fruit over ice cream. When she couldn’t get her pants on, she borrowed Luke’s and rolled up the cuffs. Her expression dared anyone to comment.

The only conversation the three of them managed was spurred by Luke being an asshole. “Whose do you think it is?” he demanded one night, out of the blue. “I mean, which one of us knocked you up?”

Bailey closed her eyes for so long that Crowley thought she wouldn’t answer. He was thinking of ways to distract Luke when she muttered, “Probably Crowley. Yeah, it’s probably Crowley’s.” 

Crowley’s mouth opened, then shut. He was very good with lies. He grew up on the receiving end of plenty, and he’d learned to wield them at an early age. He knew Bailey was lying, though he didn’t fully understand why, and he was shocked by how good the lie made him feel.

He wanted it, he realized. Wanted the baby they couldn’t even talk about.

“I have _eyes_ , you know,” hissed Dagon, one day when Bailey had walked Crowley to work. “She’s getting _round_.”

“What do you want _me_ to do?” Crowley whispered back furiously.

“Take her to a doctor. Take her to Planned Parenthood.” Dagon threw up her hands. “At least ask her if she wants to have a baby!”

“I can’t! She doesn’t—she won’t—” Crowley bit his lip. “Look, Bailey’s terrifying, okay?”

Dagon gave him a very unimpressed look. He decided to try talking to Bailey one more time. Maybe she’d be more receptive when Crowley was a girl.

The next Saturday, Crowley sat in the bathroom in her best dress, carefully applying makeup. It was a relief that both Bailey and Luke accepted this side of her. Luke especially enjoyed the nights when he got to go out with two girls, although his comments to that effect turned Bailey sullen and quarrelsome.

But today Crowley was going out on her own. She’d spent too much of her last paycheck on this ticket, and she’d catch hell for it when Bailey and Luke found out, but how often did a chance come along to see Madame Tracy’s live show?

She could have slipped away unnoticed. Luke was absorbed in his computer, and Bailey lay in bed playing game after game of Bejeweled. Crowley hesitated at the door. “Bailey?”

Bailey didn’t answer. Crowley tried the nickname she’d recently started using, after Bailey had signed a note to Crowley with just her first initial. “Bee?”

“Yuh.”

Crowley considered possible approaches. _What do you want to do about your pregnancy?_ Too confrontational—Bailey would snap. _I’m here to support you, whatever you want._ Too vague—Bailey would ignore her.

“I’m going downtown. Want me to pick anything up?” The chicken-shit option. Always Crowley’s favorite.

A beat of silence stretched out, while Crowley twisted her fingers and shot an anxious glance at the back of Luke’s head. “Apples,” said Bailey finally, which proved she was right out of her fucking mind.

“Sure thing,” said Crowley. She grabbed her purse and escaped out the door.

Madame Tracy was phenomenal, just like the reviews said. Equal parts funny, sexy, and mystical, she captivated the audience with a “séance” that took them right out of this world and into the next.

Crowley left the theater in a happy daze. A couple of shits on the bus made rude comments when she climbed on, but she was feeling too good to be offended. She sat two rows behind them, listening to her music and chewing gum. When the flavor was gone, she leaned forward to dispose of her gum carefully and quietly. After all, she didn’t want to disturb anyone.

She remembered to get off one stop early so she could swing by the corner store. She bought Bailey’s apples, then stepped out toward the apartment with long strides, plastic shopping bag swinging from her arm. It was just starting to get dark.

“I said, what do you think you are? Some kind of fucking drag queen?”

Crowley walked faster. Didn’t turn around. Knew who it was.

“You wouldn’t answer us on the bus. You better answer now.”

Those two shits had caught up with Crowley, one on either side. They must have gotten off the bus after her and waited outside the store. She’d been too absorbed in her memories of the show to notice.

One of them grabbed her elbow. “Come on, honey, talk to us. What’s in the bag?”

“Knowledge of good and evil,” said Crowley, jerking out of his grip. “Did you know there’s gum in your hair?”

He reached up to feel the sticky addition to his slicked-back style. “Fucking bitch!” He reached for Crowley again. His fingers caught and tore the plastic bag. Apples spilled to the sidewalk.

Crowley felt the other shit grab her shoulders. She was sucking in a deep breath, in preparation for a really good blood-curdling scream, when a familiar figure appeared around the corner.

“Hands off, fuckwits,” said Luke pleasantly. “That’s mine.”

One of the shits was both taller and heavier than Luke, but neither could match his sheer presence. Luke stood and spoke with the certainty of a man who always, _always_ gets what he wants. They probably thought he was a cop, or had a gun, or both.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” mumbled one of the shits, shuffling back.

“Your bitch fucked up my hair,” said the shittier one, although he too had stepped away from Crowley.

Luke raised an eyebrow and spoke derisively. “I’ll give you ten bucks for a haircut.”

“Fuck you, I don’t need your fucking money,” the guy spat. He delivered a few more choice insults, then retreated with his friend into the dusk.

Luke looked at Crowley and smiled. His hair curled damply around his ears—had he just showered?—and his fitted t-shirt clung to every muscle of his torso. Crowley did not have a rescue kink, she _didn’t_ , but holy _fuck_ was Luke handsome right now.

“Bailey wanted apples,” Crowley blurted out. She looked at the fruit on the pavement and started to pick it up. Most of them weren’t too bruised.

Luke laughed. “What a needy bitch, hunh?” He helped Crowley pack the apples into the torn bag, then tucked it under his arm.

“Yeah.” Crowley didn’t think Bailey was a needy bitch, but it was easier to agree and have one more reason to hate herself than to argue. “But, you know, she is pregnant.”

It was the first time Crowley had said the word aloud. She felt strangely guilty, as if she’d just undermined Bailey. As if Bailey’s refusal to acknowledge it would have been powerful enough to unmake the truth of it.

“I know, isn’t it hot?” Luke slid his free arm around Crowley’s waist. “You know the baby’s mine, right?”

Crowley figured as much. She and Bailey hadn’t performed that particular act nearly as much as Luke and Bailey had. “Yeah.”

“As long as you know. Let Bails think whatever the hell she wants.” Luke leaned close enough to breathe against Crowley’s lips, his hand slipping down to her ass. His voice had gone low and rough. “ _You’re_ hot. Wanna be my princess tonight?”

Crowley shuddered, dizzy with the wanting and not-wanting all tangled up inside her. She knew something wasn’t right about this, knew it from the way Luke talked trash about Bailey, the way he was groping Crowley in the street. But she’d never had a partner like Luke, who looked at her with the same raw desire whether Crowley was a girl or a boy. It felt too good.

“Yes,” Crowley whispered.

So they went home and gave Bailey the apples. She cut them up and ate them, bruises and all, staring at the wall while Crowley got railed just the way she liked it.

The next week Crowley was tidying up the salad bar at Devil’s Food when he heard raised voices in the office. They quickly escalated into shouted profanity. A few seconds later, Bailey slammed out the door looking like a small cumulonimbus, and dropped her badge into the ranch dressing. Then she walked out. Crowley, who still had two hours left in his shift, said nothing and left the badge for someone else to discover.

“He said they were ‘letting me go because of my bad attitude’,” said Bailey when he got home. She was aggressively dismantling a pineapple. “That’s some goddamn discriminatory bullshit.”

“To be fair, your attitude is terrible,” Crowley pointed out.

She snarled at him, but it was almost a laugh, and it eased the tension on her face. Crowley hugged her from behind, resting his hands on the curve of her belly.

“Don’t touch—there,” Bailey bit out, her tension ratcheting back up near panic.

Crowley drew back, trying not to sound as hurt as he felt. “But Luke—”

“I know what Luke does,” she snapped.

Oh. That rearranged a few things in Crowley’s head. “Can I brush your hair then?”

“Sure. Weirdo.”

Crowley had finished Bailey’s hair and was french-braiding his own when Luke came in the front door. Bailey told him in a monotone about losing her job, and he slammed his hand against the wall.

Not a fist. Not nearly hard enough to make a hole. But Crowley flinched and shrank into a corner.

Luke ignored him, staring at Bailey. “You got fired right in the middle of a _really expensive project_ , you know.” He gestured at her belly. “Genius move.”

Bailey flared up. “Oh, nice, that’s nice. Blame it on me. You dickhead, this is all your fault!”

Crowley shoved in his earbuds to drown out the rest of the argument. But not even “Don’t Stop Me Now” could distract him from Luke’s point. Babies _were_ expensive. He’d grown up listening to his mother bitch about it.

And although Crowley didn’t have any extra cash for cribs and carriers, he had a family that never threw anything away. The shit in their closets wouldn’t be high quality. But it would be free. As long as he was willing to humiliate himself by asking for it.

So the next time he had a few daylight hours off work, Crowley gritted his teeth and set out on a quest. The bus ride wasn’t as long as he wanted it to be. All too soon he was slouching down the streets of his old neighborhood, dodging broken glass on autopilot.

The house was a wreck, the weeds overgrown, one window boarded up, same as always. And the garage door was open, so Crowley could feast his eyes on the only thing here of any real value.

The Bentley.

She was a bit scratched, a bit grubby, but every inch as beautiful as the day Grandma Eve had told Crowley, “Soon as you learn to drive, she’s yours.” He ran one finger wistfully and surreptitiously over the bonnet as he circled around to the empty side of the garage. His brother Raffi was there, tearing apart an old refrigerator with his friend Raven.

“Hey,” said Crowley.

Raffi straightened up. “Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal son.”

“Prodigal is a big word for you,” said Crowley. “You sure you know what it means?”

“You act like I'm an idiot, Anthony, but you’re the one pissing off the guy with the wrench.” He swung the heavy tool casually in Crowley’s direction. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to borrow some stuff,” said Crowley, proud of how calm he sounded. “Is Mom home?”

“No, she’s out.” Raffi narrowed his eyes. “What kind of stuff?”

“Nothing you’d care about.” Crowley shrugged. “Baby stuff.”

Raffi dropped the wrench. “What the _fuck_? Does that mean what I think it means?”

Raven roared with laughter from the refrigerator wreckage. “You knocked up your girl, and now she’s sending you out to collect shit for the baby? Man, you are whipped.”

“ _Anthony_ knocked up a _girl_?” Crowley’s sister Carmine emerged from the side door to the house. “Is it the end times?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a bunch of children. Will you shut up and find me some diapers?” Crowley knew his face was bright red. He also knew that the more miserable they made him, the more likely he was to get what he wanted. For Bee and whoever was growing in her belly, he’d throw himself under the bus.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see what I can find,” said Carmine, chuckling as she went back inside.

Raven picked himself up from the floor. “Show us a picture,” he demanded.

“A picture of what?” said Crowley, who was pretty good at playing dumb.

“Don’t play dumb,” Raven said. “Don’t you have a picture of your girlfriend on your phone?”

“I don’t have a phone,” said Crowley smugly.

“Why don’t—”

“Here you go, dumbass.” Carmine staggered back into the garage and dumped an armload of overstuffed bags at Crowley’s feet. “Sarah was here yesterday—did you know she’s having another? yeah in September—and she left everything out on the floor. Take it all. Mom says she’ll set it on fire before she puts it back in the closet.”

Crowley scanned the pile. Clothes, burp rags, bottles. A half-empty pack of diapers. A couple of pacifiers. It probably wasn’t everything they’d need, but it was a decent start.

“Thanks,” said Crowley. As casually as possible, he jerked his thumb at the Bentley. “Toss me the keys, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Raffi laughed in his face. “Are you shitting me? Just because Grandma Eve played favorites doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

“It’s in her will.” Crowley couldn’t help it, even though he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. “She left it to _me_.”

“Yeah, let me know if you want to take that to court. Until then, tough shit.”

Trying to shrug it off—after all, it wasn’t the first time they’d done this dance—Crowley gathered everything he could carry and headed to the bus stop. He didn’t say good-bye. Neither did anyone else.

Back in the apartment, he shoved it all in a corner for Bailey and Luke to ignore. And nobody said another word about the baby, until the day Crowley came home to find Bailey panting on the bathroom floor. 

He dropped down next to her. “Are you? I mean? Is it?”

Bailey gave these questions the answers they deserved. “Ohh-OW! Shit! FUCK!” Her face contorted and her fist pounded the tile until the contraction passed.

Crowley found her other hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back so hard he felt several joints pop. “We should take you to the hospital. I’m going to call Luke, okay?”

“Fucking Luke,” she gasped, which wasn’t a no, so Crowley took her phone out of her pocket and called.

Luke drove them to the hospital in his stupid immaculate Mercedes 300 SL gullwing. Crowley hated that car, but Bailey’s nails digging into his arm were an effective distraction from the indignity of riding in it. Luke let them out at the hospital entrance and muttered something about coming back later.

Then Crowley was checking them in at the desk while Bailey invented curses he’d never heard before. The labor and delivery nurses didn’t bat an eye. One of them introduced herself as Mary, whisked Bailey and Crowley into a room with ducks on the wallpaper, then disappeared.

She reappeared before Crowley had time to wonder what he was supposed to do. “The Youngs, is it?” She looked at her chart. “Oops, silly me, they’re next door!” She bustled out and back, in the minute between contractions, then hefted Bailey onto the bed with a surprising amount of muscle. “Let’s see how much you’re dilated, sweetie.”

Crowley saw a spark in Bailey’s eye that indicated she’d like to backhand the nurse for that endearment. He considered doing it for her, but decided against it when Mary announced, “Well! Looks like this baby is ready!”

“You mean . . . now?” stuttered Crowley.

“That’s right, I don’t think the doctor will be here in time. Get the shoulders, then, there’s a dear.”

Crowley discovered that he had passed beyond terror to a place of ethereal calm. For a moment he found himself holding—catching, really—a wet bundle of white limbs. Then Mary was rubbing it with towels, measuring and weighing with relaxed efficiency, untroubled by the cries it made. 

But Crowley felt those cries echoing in every chamber of his heart. He stared. Small. It was so small. Not cute, but compelling. Crowley didn’t tell his arms to reach out for it. They just did.

Mary, oblivious, offered it to Bailey. “Here he is, sweetie!”

Crowley felt frozen, foolish, unable to retract his arms. Then Bailey spoke up, drained but lucid. “Give it to Crowley,” she said. “It’s his baby.”

“Isn’t that just precious,” cooed Mary, handing it over. “Do you have a name picked out?”

Crowley settled the baby’s slight weight in his arms, gazing down into wide blue eyes. He’d imagined that if he ever had a kid, he would name it after Grandma Eve, the only person in his whole rotten family who gave a damn about him. But this baby had a tiny penis. And while Crowley knew as well as anyone that genitals didn’t dictate the kid’s gender, he still felt it would be a little unfair to saddle a penis-bearing baby with the name Eve.

Crowley thought for a moment, brushing his fingers over the baby’s blonde fluff. Then he smiled. “Hi, Adam.”

Soon afterwards the nursing shifts changed, so they didn’t see Mary again until the next day. Luke had come back. They were all in the recovery room. Crowley lay across the chair that pulled out into a narrow cot, Adam nestled on his thin chest. Bailey and Luke were arguing over the birth certificate form when Mary bustled in. “Has baby pooped yet? Wonderful, I love a good meconium! I’ll mark it on the chart here, and oh, are you done with that form already? Let me just take that for you too—”

Even Luke, champion of talking over people, could hardly get a word in. “Hang on, we haven’t—”

“There’s your painkillers, sweetie, and the stool softener, take them together, remember it’s just as important to keep your bowels moving as it is for baby. Want some more ice? Oh, you haven’t filled out the last name yet, not to worry, I’ll just scribble that in, there we go, and don’t they look sweet together? Let me check the little toesie-wosies, make sure they’re not too yellow, just a prick on the heel now to get some blood, whoops, poor dear, give him some milk and he’ll forget all about it—”

She disappeared out the door, still chattering. Adam wailed and Crowley fumbled with the bottle, wishing he had extra hands. Luke, frowning, started to follow Mary, but Bailey snapped, “Will you get me some more fucking ice, all that talk and she left me with this damn thing melting, ‘s not doing any good.”

Luke’s gaze slid over Bailey, landing between her legs. “Want me to kiss it better?”

“I do not want you to fucking kiss it better, you asshole,” she hissed. “I want you to get me some fucking ice.”

“All right, Christ, you could ask for it like a reasonable human being. Should I pick up some fancy chocolates while I’m at it?”

“I. Want. Ice.”

Crowley had a desperate urge to hide in a corner with his music—but no, Adam needed him. He lifted the tiny skull in one hand, using the other to tilt the bottle this way and that. Finally Adam’s minuscule mouth latched on to the nipple. Bringing his ear close to Adam’s face, Crowley let the soft eager sound of his drinking drown out everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot summary: Bailey’s pregnancy and Adam’s birth are described from Crowley’s POV. Bailey says the baby is “probably Crowley’s” but Luke insists it’s his. Crowley visits his abusive family to borrow stuff for the baby. He sees the Bentley, which his grandmother Eve bequeathed to him, but the rest of his family won’t let him have it. When the baby is born, Crowley picks the name Adam, thinking of his grandmother.
> 
> Things are gonna get better from here, I promise!
> 
> Oh and Gabe's fictional nonprofit is inspired by the amazing work of [Al Otro Lado](https://alotrolado.org/who-we-are/) and the [Texas Civil Rights Project](https://texascivilrightsproject.org/), among others.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The rational mind is a denier of Love,_   
>  _though it may pretend to be an intimate._   
>  _It is clever and knowing, but not empty of itself._   
>  _Until your angel has become nothing, it is a devil._   
>  _\- Rumi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a brief flashback within a longer chapter, but when it got to 3K I figured it should be its own chapter. Ha! So we can all enjoy a nice palate cleanser. Nobody even _thinks_ about Luke in this.
> 
> Also I had to do a minor edit to chapter 1, as I was wrong about what Bee got drunk on. ;P

ONE YEAR AGO

Baize was surprised when Crowley invited them to AZ’s fortieth birthday party. AZ had such a baby face they could never remember that he was actually older than them. And AZ and Crowley weren’t big party people; they were more inclined to celebrate by opening a bottle of wine and starting a board game, then abandoning it in favor of bizarre and esoteric arguments.

But apparently Crowley and Adam wanted to do something special for AZ’s arrival in a new decade. Baize didn’t really get it, but of course they agreed to come. They wrapped up a giant square of honeycomb for AZ, because he was the only person they knew whose sweet tooth rivaled their own.

May was a busy time for beekeeping. Baize spent the day of the party hurrying from hive to hive, checking on queens, adding boxes and frames, tracking the spring flow. And, of course, keeping an eye out for swarms.

By the time they got back to their house, Baize didn’t even have time for a shower—just a quick change of clothes and a reapplication of deodorant. They grabbed AZ’s present, called a Lyft, and were sliding into the backseat when they remembered they’d meant to comb their hair and put it up. They looked at their wrist for the hair tie that wasn’t there, and sighed. Crowley would have one.

When Baize arrived, they were stunned by the size of the party. People they didn’t even know were spilling out of the little house into the front and side yards. _Oh. Of course,_ they thought. _Everyone in Tadfield loves AZ._ Given the opportunity to celebrate with him, who would say no?

Besides, AZ had a big family. Baize recognized a few aunts and uncles and cousins, who nodded at them in return. There was AZ’s father, broad-shouldered and soft-spoken, who loved old country music and wore a cowboy hat unironically. There was his mother, the tall Englishwoman who delighted in providing politely savage commentary on the State of the World Today.

Baize hadn’t wanted to like AZ’s parents. But they doted on Adam, cooked excellent meals, and never misgendered Baize, no matter how often Baize expected them to. So Baize had to lavish all their dislike on AZ’s brother Gabriel, whose crimes consisted of being unfairly attractive and stupidly oblivious. Right now he was busy doing both, in a short-sleeved lavender button-down and a pair of expensive-looking cream linen slacks.

Baize passed the adults to join Adam and his best friends, Pepper and Brian, who were sitting on the fence drinking out of red solo cups.

“What have you got there?” asked Baize.

“Piña colada,” said Brian, offering his cup. “Want some? ’s like drinkin’ ice cream.”

“You keep it.” Baize eyed the sticky spill down the side of the cup, over Brian’s hand and down his arm. “I think you’re enjoying it more than I would.”

“Mom made them for us, before starting on the grown-up drinks,” explained Adam. “She’s a she tonight, by the way.”

“Cool, got it. Where’s your dad?” Baize indicated the gift under their arm.

“Still in the kitchen with Mom, I think,” said Adam. Then something occurred to him and he turned back to his friends. “Pepper, if your mom says we can’t play torturin’ witches anymore, would she let us play torturin’ capitalists? I really wanna torture somebody, but I don’t mind so much who.”

Baize took the side door into the kitchen, rarely used by guests because it stuck in the frame, but Baize knew how to open it by applying pressure in just the right place. Crowley stood at the blender, barefoot in a black pencil skirt and a loose green blouse, her auburn hair drawn back in a bun. Baize reached up to pull out her hairband, and used it to scoop their own hair into a hasty ponytail.

“Hey!” said Crowley, trying to snatch it back.

Baize evaded her. “Yours looks better down.”

“But I’m preparing drinks,” Crowley protested. “What if a hair falls in?”

“That’s someone else’s problem,” said Baize. They caught sight of AZ in the kitchen doorway, all dolled up in a matching vest and bow tie. They slid past Crowley to offer him the honeycomb. 

“Sweets to the sweet,” they quoted, knowing AZ would remember the original source.

“Oh, don’t be dreadful!” He made a face. “Forty isn’t that close to the grave.” He sniffed the package and smiled. “But thank you. For this, and for coming tonight. Can I get you anything? A drink, a slice of cake—”

“We are not cutting the cake yet, angel!”

Baize considered Crowley’s indignant expression, then turned back to AZ. “It’s your party. You cut the cake whenever you want. Say the word, and I’ll tie Crowley up so she doesn’t interfere.”

“Oh, _would_ you,” breathed AZ, eyelashes fluttering as he gazed over his partner with unabashed lust.

“Yeah, I’ll even put a bow on top and leave her in your bed,” Baize added, just for the pleasure of setting Crowley’s cheeks on fire.

“You are a literal demon and I’m never inviting you again,” growled Crowley. She nodded toward a platter of deviled eggs taking up too much counter space. “Put those on the table in the yard, would you?”

“Only if I get a drink first.” Baize grabbed a cup and held it out for Crowley to pour from the blender, then hefted the egg tray with their other hand and made their way back outside.

The folding table was already overflowing with food, but Baize managed to fit the eggs between the tamales and the salsa. A few guests swarmed in to investigate. Baize stepped back to loiter under a tree and drink their margarita.

Gazing around, Baize realized there were enough people at this party that they might be able to find someone to take them home. They were overdue for their spring fuck, and this would save them from sifting through all the questionable content on Tinder. Baize wished they’d taken the extra time to shower, and put more thought into their outfit. 

Were they a terrible person for cleaning up only if they had a chance of getting laid? Yeah, so what?

Baize drained half their cup while they considered options. Anathema from the crystal shop in town was an appealing possibility, in that black dress with the lacy sleeves that looked so touchable. Baize decided to try sprucing themselves up in the bathroom—maybe they’d even change into one of Crowley’s shirts. Then they could hit on Anathema and see where it went.

They headed toward the house, and there was Gabriel. Which was fine. There was also some kid trying to flirt with him. Which was not fine.

For one thing, the kid was being too obvious, sucking lewdly on the straw of his drink, and for another, he was too young. Christ, he looked barely old enough for college, and if AZ was forty then Gabriel had to be, what, forty-three? Forty-four? Gabriel wore his age well, though, between the smooth lines of his jaw and forehead, the shape of the biceps filling his short sleeves, and damn, those muscled forearms crossed loosely in front of him, signalling his lack of interest in the obnoxious little tart.

But the kid wasn’t getting it, was he? He swayed closer to his target. Baize was seized by a completely altruistic urge to rescue Gabriel from the situation, so they stepped in and touched his shoulder. “Hey, AZ’s looking for you. Come inside for a minute?”

Gabriel turned his whole body to face them, smiling with a white flash of teeth and a crinkle around his eyes that made Baize’s gut clench. They’d meant to drop their hand after getting his attention, but they found their fingers lingering on the warmth of his shoulder, sliding ever so slightly down his arm before losing contact.

“Sure thing,” said Gabriel. “I’m at his command tonight.”

Could Baize really be blamed if their brain experimented with the sound of those words, so they could imagine hearing _at your command tonight_ from that perfect mouth? They tried to remember if they’d ever fucked anyone over forty. There was a first time for everything.

Baize licked their lips and headed inside, barely hearing Gabriel tell the crestfallen kid, “Sorry, family calls! See you around.”

Halfway through the crowded living room, Baize suddenly stopped. Should they actually try to find AZ? They hadn’t thought this through. Gabriel bumped into them, that _asshole_ , so now they knew how warm his whole body was. It did not help them piece together a plan.

“AZ isn’t really looking for me, is he,” said Gabriel.

Baize folded their arms defensively. “I don’t know. He could be.”

“It’s all right, I don’t mind.” He paused. “No to make a big deal or anything, Buzz, but there’s a dead bee in your hair.”

“Ah. Shit.” This kind of thing was the reason Baize had wanted to check themselves in the bathroom before hitting on anyone. Gabriel was already reaching for it. “No, don't—”

“OW!” He yanked his hand back.

Baize sighed. “Dead bees still have stingers, you idiot.”

A couple of people had heard his shout and glanced over. Gabriel waved away their attention. “That was stupid of me, wasn’t it?”

“Extremely. Let me see.” Baize reached for his hand and examined the thick pad of his thumb. “I’ll get the stinger out.”

“Aren’t you supposed to use a credit card or something?”

“Do you think I haven’t done this a hundred times?” Baize scraped their nail carefully over his skin, flicking the stinger away before any more venom could enter the wound. “Let’s put something on this. Wait, shit. You’re not allergic, are you?” 

Gabriel would have mentioned it, right, in all the years they’d known each other? And Baize would have remembered if he had—wouldn’t they? They felt abruptly guilty, realizing that most of what they knew about Gabriel boiled down to his physical attractiveness and the fact that he ran some kind of nonprofit.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “It’s been years since I last got stung, though. Guess I haven't been spending enough time around bees.”

Was he flirting? _Was he?_ He was certainly following Baize willingly enough to the bathroom, making no attempt to remove his hand from theirs as they held it under the light. The sting site was swelling, but not too dramatically. “You should wash this.”

“You can do it for me,” he said quietly, and Baize felt heat rush to their face. They couldn’t even look him in the eye, just kept staring at his giant hand, feeling his fingers curl around their own. What the fuck _you can do it for me_. Was it that obvious that they wanted to?

“Big baby,” they muttered, turning on the tap and fumbling with the bar of soap. They cleaned the skin, patted it dry, and poked through Crowley’s beauty products until they found a tube of hydrocortisone. When they rubbed the cream into his thumb, Gabriel let out a soft whimper, somewhere between protest and pleasure. It lit up Baize like a high-voltage shock. Where else could they touch, to make him make that sound?

“Thank you,” said Gabriel. His free hand brushed over their hair, and then he offered them the rest of the bee in his palm. “Got it this time.”

Baize lifted the tiny corpse by one wing and deposited it on the shelf that held the family’s toothbrushes. “There. Another birthday gift.”

“You’re really terrible. You know that, right?” Gabriel was laughing, and Baize finally managed to look up and meet his eyes. He looked happy, and _interested_. Baize swallowed. This hadn’t been their plan. But it could be a very, very good plan.

At the moment, though, they were crammed in a tiny bathroom, with one of Gabriel’s shoulders sticking out in the hallway. So it wasn’t an option to close the door and put their arms around his neck and kiss him, even if that bit of counter space next to the sink looked sturdy enough to—

“I think someone’s waiting for the bathroom,” said Gabriel, nodding toward the hall. “Shall we?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, let’s go.” Baize followed him out into the hall, hopelessly distracted by the cut of his slacks. A forty-plus lawyer had no business with an ass that fine.

“You should have a drink,” Baize found themselves saying. “You know, to cope with the pain.”

“Oh, yes. It’s agonizing,” he answered with a mostly straight face. “Can I get you anything?”

“I had a margarita. But I lost my cup.” They didn’t remember, but they must have set it down when they decided to intervene between Gabriel and the college kid.

“I’ll get you another.” Despite his size, Gabriel maneuvered deftly into the kitchen, returning moments later with a beer for himself and a second margarita for Baize.

It went down easily while Gabriel talked about his favorite movies and Baize found a reason to sneer at every one. Then Gabriel’s mother roped him into an argument about politics, so Baize went off and drank a third cup in a sulk. Then it was time for cake, and Crowley refilled every cup so they could toast AZ.

By the time Baize had finished off four cups of Crowley-strength margarita, they thought it might not be a bad idea to sit down. The couch and the few available chairs were occupied, so Baize stumbled down the hall and peered into Crowley’s and AZ’s room. Their bed was too covered with jackets, coats, bags and boxes to be comfortable. They tried Adam’s room, and found the bed equally blanketed with crap. But they were _done_ standing, so they flopped onto Adam’s floor between the Legos and the laundry, leaning back against his bed.

“Buzz? You okay?”

They’d only closed their eyes for a moment, hadn’t they? Baize blinked them open to see Gabriel standing in the doorway.

“What’re you doing here?” they mumbled.

“Looking for you,” he answered easily. “I hadn’t seen you for a while. If you’re okay, I’ll let you—”

“Don’ go. C’mon in.” Adam’s room wasn’t much bigger than the bathroom, but at least Gabriel could get all the way out of the hall. “Close th’ door.”

“What?”

Baize hadn’t turned on the light, and neither had Gabriel. It was hard to read his expression. But he didn’t sound offended, only confused. Baize licked their lips and made an effort to enunciate. “I said, close the door.”

Miraculously, he did.

“Now help me up.”

Gabriel reached down to grip Baize’s hand, pulling them to their feet as if they weighed nothing at all. The sudden motion made their head spin. They leaned on Gabriel’s chest and grinned up at him. “You’re reeeally good at following d’rections.”

He grinned back. “Only if I like them.”

Baize slid their hands from his chest up the sides of his neck, tracing both thumbs along his jaw. So smooth. He must’ve shaved just before the party. They went up on tiptoe to nose at the hollow of his throat, breathing in. He smelled like aftershave, too. They felt him swallow as he slipped his arms around them.

Baize tilted their head back again. There was just enough light to make out Gabriel’s features, to know they were looking into his eyes. “Kiss me,” they whispered.

Gabriel inhaled as if he were surprised, but he couldn’t be surprised, could he? He kept one arm around their waist and used his other hand to grasp their chin, holding their face steady as he leaned down and touched his lips to theirs. Skin brushed against skin, soft and gentle.

Then he drew back with a smile.

“You fucking tease,” growled Baize. They grabbed Gabriel’s big dumb head and pulled him into another kiss. They nipped at his lower lip with their teeth, sucked his quiet gasp into their own mouth, pushed their tongue between his parted lips. When he opened up for them, warm and willing, they praised every god and devil they knew.

Kissing someone who’d been the object of their low-level lust for years, while more than a little drunk, was an onslaught of overwhelming sensation. Baize tightened their fingers in Gabriel’s hair, as much to anchor themselves as to keep him in place. They licked over his lips, warm and wet, and moaned shamelessly when he returned the favor. His fingers were brushing down their throat, tracing their collarbone. Desire crackled over their skin and blazed between their thighs, but beneath the conflagration they felt a hint of something quiet and cool, something almost unbearably intimate.

Before they could examine it too closely, the door opened and Pepper walked in.

She flicked on the light switch. She stared at Baize and Gabriel. Then she asked point-blank, “Are you two _kissing_? In _Adam’s room_?”

“None of y’r business,” snapped Baize. At the same time, Gabriel said, “Hi there. What are you up to?”

“I'm getting my jacket. To go home.” Pepper extracted it from the mess on the floor. “Look, I’m not slut-shaming either of you, I just think it’s rude to do it in Adam’s room. You should apologize to him.”

Baize was struck dumb by the audacity. On one hand, they had to admire the kid. On the other hand, no one told Baize Zebul to apologize for anything. They were still at a loss for words when Gabriel spoke up. “You know what, Pepper? You are absolutely right. Come on, Buzz, let’s go talk to Adam.”

He tugged Baize into the hall as Pepper trotted off with her jacket, still side-eyeing them.

“Are y’really gonna apologize to Adam?” mumbled Baize.

“God, no.”

“So you jus’ lied? To a child?” For some reason Baize found this hysterical. They started laughing so hard they had to lean against Gabriel. Well. Maybe they didn’t _have_ to.

They felt rather than heard his low chuckle. “I didn’t lie. I told Pepper she’s right—which she is—and indicated that we would talk to Adam. Which we will. At the very least, I’ll say good night to him before I leave.”

Baize’s mirth faded into admiration of Gabriel's deliberate misdirection. There were gears turning behind that pretty face, after all. They leaned back enough to look up at him, and saw the lips they’d just been kissing curve into a smile.

“You should take me home,” Baize blurted out.

He hesitated. “You need a ride?”

Why the fuck would he play dumb about this? “You should take me home. To your house. With you. So we can—” Baize didn’t know how explicit they were going to get, so it was probably good that Gabriel cut them off.

“You’re drunk.” 

“So what, so’re you.” But even as they said it, Baize realized it wasn’t true. Gabriel probably had eighty pounds on them, and, hang on, had he even drunk more than one beer? They’d never seen him get another. Of course not; he was driving and he was _responsible_.

Baize took a wobbly step backward, feeling for the wall behind them. They hadn’t meant to get trashed. Shit.

Gabriel put those big hands on their shoulders, steadying them. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.” 

Baize knew he was really saying _I don’t want to take you home_ , and they certainly weren’t too drunk to experience utter humiliation. “Ugh, let’s not.” They shrugged him off and shook their head, even though it almost made them fall over. “Forget it, forget I said anything.”

He looked earnest. Concerned. “Buzz—”

“Fuck you, go home!” Baize retreated into the bathroom and slammed the door, planning to stay there forever or at least until Gabriel had died of old age. But after all the guests had left, Crowley found Baize and dragged them out to the couch. She reclaimed her hair tie, then threw a blanket over them. 

In the morning, Baize woke with their worst hangover since college, and a memory of the past night’s events that was much, _much_ clearer than they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sweets to the sweet" is from Hamlet, said by the queen as she's scattering flowers on Ophelia's grave. But, er, despite that I think this was mostly a cheerful chapter? Idk, hope you enjoyed it, feel free to yell at me in the comments or on [tumblr](https://melibemusca.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Though snakes are scattering venom_   
>  _and though the sour-faced distress us,_   
>  _still the bees in their mountain hives_   
>  _keep depositing sweet stores of honey._   
>  _-Rumi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge enormous thank you to anyone who's still interested in this story after I took an entire season off writing it. I'm awfully excited to share the rest.
> 
> In today's update, Baize is sleep-deprived and distracted by work (which obviously has nothing to do with the state of your erstwhile author, why would you think that?) and Bailey gets a few things sorted out.
> 
> CW for brief mention of past sexual abuse.

It’s May again, and the nectar is flowing. Baize has to add frames as fast as the bees fill them, set bait hives for swarms, trap pollen and extract honey. They do _not_ want to be taking time off to go to the goddamn courthouse. But Uriel Santos, the Civil Angels advocate who took their case, explained that they don’t have a choice.

Baize already tried telling Luke in an e-mail to kindly fuck off, because Adam has a perfectly good family which Luke isn’t part of. Luke wrote back kindly refusing to fuck off.

He sandwiched threats between bribes. He reminded Baize, and by extension Crowley, that it would be terribly embarrassing to explain themselves in front of a judge. He offered money again, and “generous” visiting rights.

Baize was incensed. Nobody offered Crowley visiting rights to his own son, and they told Luke as much in clear and colorful language. So Luke was “regretfully forced” to file a petition with the Family Court. And now they all have to meet downtown at this stupid building with overwrought architecture and over-irrigated grass.

It isn’t a trial, that’s what Uriel keeps saying. It’s an appearance. Custody trials are ugly, and Judge Nutter prefers to settle cases without them if at all possible.

Baize had expected to dislike Uriel. After all, what kind of person would work with Gabriel on purpose? But they were surprised to find her more than tolerable. Hers is the first familiar face that Baize spots as they approach the courthouse, and they give her a nod. She nods back sharply, without smiling, which they appreciate. A handful of loiterers have taken what little shade can be found, so Baize stands near Uriel in the late afternoon sun and silently sweats.

Crowley and AZ arrive a few minutes later, both thrumming with anxiety. Baize can almost hear the high-pitched vibration of a hive under attack. But AZ still manages to smile at them. “Thank you for coming.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, as if Baize was doing him a personal favor rather than dealing with the fallout of their own fuckery. But they can’t find the heart to give him shit for it.

“Luke’s not here,” they say instead, because it’s true, and they want it to remain true. Maybe his executive lifestyle kept him too busy and he missed his flight to Tadfield. Maybe he decided at the last minute that this circus wasn’t worth it.

“Yes, he is.” Crowley’s voice is low and taut as he gazes over Baize’s shoulder. They turn.

Luke strides up the path to the courthouse steps, his dark gray suit immaculate, his curls cut close to his head. Some woman is walking next to him, but Baize barely registers her. Luke meets their eyes and the fine lines on his face sharpen his grin to something deadly.

“Great to see you again,” he says, and goes to hug Baize, actually tries to fucking hug them. They freeze just long enough for his arms to circle them. Then they get a hand up on his chest and shove _hard_.

“Fuck off!” they shout, before they can stop themselves.

Shit. Now everyone is staring. Luke knows and he’s _working_ it, eyes wide and wounded, rubbing his chest as if Baize hurt him. They know they look unhinged, swearing without provocation. They try to unclench their fists. Sweat drips down their back.

They shouldn’t have come. They shouldn’t have come. They should’ve let Crowley and AZ handle this, never mind that Baize is still legally Adam’s parent, never mind that Luke has insisted on communicating with them and all but ignoring Crowley.

Then Uriel steps smoothly between Baize and Luke. “Please don’t approach my client without their consent,” she says, and, without waiting for Luke to answer, introduces herself. “Uriel Santos.”

She gives brief cold handshakes to Luke, to his wife, and to the lawyer who appeared without Baize noticing. Maybe he crawled out of the ground. He looks like a troglodyte, with limp pale hair and a trenchcoat that makes no sense for this weather. Apparently his name is Duke Hastur.

 _Duke?_ Baize mouths at Crowley. Crowley makes a face back.

“Crowley, you’re looking good!” Luke has recovered quickly from Uriel’s rebuke and his eyes slip from Crowley to AZ. “This must be your new partner?”

“Not really new,” mutters Crowley. The fear on his face is plain to Baize, but maybe the sunglasses are enough to hide it from Luke.

“Crowley and I have been together for ten years now. I’m AZ Fell.” He steps forward and offers his hand.

Luke shakes it enthusiastically. “Good to meet you, AZ.”

Baize ignores the rest of the stilted introductions to savor the expression on AZ’s face. A few years ago, they were browsing in his shop when an older gentleman picked up an Oscar Wilde collection and made some homophobic remarks to no one in particular. AZ materialized at the man’s side, informed him that the shop was closed, and ushered him out the door. Then he announced, also to no one in particular, “If that man touches my books again I will run him through with a sword.” The fury in his eyes suggested this was not hyperbole.

Now AZ looks ready to run Luke through with a sword, and there aren’t even any books involved.

The lawyers lead everyone inside the courthouse, where it’s dim and cool. Baize is glad of the air conditioning for about two minutes before they’re freezing. Ever since they moved to the Southwest, they’ve hated how goddamn cold it is indoors from May to October.

They slump on a bench, arms wrapped around themselves, mind drifting to the field with their hives. In their imagination they are surrounded by the low hum of thousands of bees, the sweet scent of nectar, and the heat, always the heat, pouring from the sun, radiating back from dirt and dry grass.

“Baize Zebul?” The judge is calling. Reluctantly they let the mental image fade.

Judge Nutter earns a modicum of their respect by clarifying the names and pronouns of everyone present. She looks judgmentally at Crowley, which raises Baize’s hackles, but then she looks with equal judgement at Luke, and they figure, well, she is a judge.

The air fills with questions and answers. Uriel and are-you-shitting-me-is-your-name-really-Duke talk in the magical way lawyers have that makes everything dull, even something as interesting as a precocious eleven-year-old with a passion for puppies. Baize speaks as little as possible, passing the questions to Crowley whenever they can.

He’s nervous. His leg bounces and his long fingers roam, rubbing his arms, scratching his neck. But with AZ steady beside him, Crowley doesn’t fold up. He takes off his sunglasses and speaks clearly.

He explains to the judge that he and AZ started the adoption process years ago, but stopped when they realized they would need the consent of both birth parents. He says that he didn’t want to reach out to Luke for fear of exactly what’s happening now.

It’s admirable spin, a lie that feels more true than the truth--that they lost track of the paperwork and then forgot about it. Baize is impressed.

They start to wonder if even Crowley’s nervousness is an act, showing how important Adam is to him and how scared he is of Luke. Feigned or real, it surely buys him more sympathy than Baize’s aggression outside the courthouse would have.

When they look at Luke, they still want to punch him, so they look at his wife instead. Stylish haircut, perfect makeup, forgettably fashionable clothes. She’s barely spoken. Baize can’t remember her name. They can’t imagine Adam living with those two.

And yet, a small part of them whispers, doesn’t he deserve a choice? Baize was never offered one. They were told that children of divorced parents lived with their mothers and visited their fathers on alternate weekends. No one asked who stayed up with Baize all night when they were sick (their father), who helped with their homework (their father), who prioritized Baize over work (their father).

Worst of all, their father didn’t fight to keep them. He simply remarried and got a new set of kids to stay up with all night, while seeing Baize on alternate weekends.

Looking back now on those empty years, Baize can see that their mother was every bit as unhappy as they were. She kept Baize because that’s what divorced mothers were supposed to do, but parenting had never been her forte. She didn’t try to hide her relief when Baize left for college.

Shivering and disoriented, Baize finds themselves wondering if all this litigious bullshit might really be what’s best for Adam.

Then their gaze falls on Crowley and AZ, and their perspective snaps back into place. Adam’s childhood is nothing like their own. He lives with parents who want and love him. Luke needs to stay the fuck out of it.

Suddenly Baize realizes that everyone is standing up, gathering briefcases, moving toward the door. They elbow Crowley in the ribs. “What happened?”

He scowls. “Weren’t you listening?”

“It’s fucking cold in here,” they say, as if that’s an answer.

“Adam is staying with Crowley and AZ for now,” Uriel tells Baize as they all walk out together. She doesn’t mention Baize’s daydreaming, but they could cut a finger on her sharp tone. “Judge Nutter ordered a psychological evaluation of the child, which can take several months.”

“Ah, shit,” sighs Baize.

Uriel frowns. “This is probably the best we could hope for. She wasn’t likely to dismiss Luke’s claim outright on the first appearance. I have to run, but I’ll be in touch.”

Baize watches Uriel march toward her car with a brisk step that emphasizes the tailoring of her ivory suit. She’s pretty, Baize thinks. Nice legs. Maybe after this mess is over, they could ask—but no. She works with Gabriel. That would be a terrible idea, for reasons that Baize can’t quite articulate.

“How about Adelita’s?”

Baize blinks at Crowley. “What?”

“Adelita’s, for dinner. To meet Gabriel and Adam. Come on, Bee, wake up!” Crowley snaps his fingers in their face, and Baize bites at them halfheartedly. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Not enough sleep,” they admit. “It’s a big spring flow and I’ve been staying up late to spin frames. Probably have to do it again tonight.”

“Let’s get some food in you, then,” says AZ, herding them solicitously to the Bentley.

Adam could have gone to a friend’s house after school until the court date was over, but Gabriel offered to pick him up and Adam accepted with an eagerness that surprised them all. Baize thinks they understand, and it’s not only that Adam knew Gabriel would take him to the field for batting practice. Adam knows that someone is trying to take him away from the family he loves. If he couldn’t be with his parents, he probably wanted the next closest thing.

As Baize, Crowley, and AZ arrive at the restaurant, they see Adam and Gabriel holding down a large table on the shaded patio. Adam’s mitt hangs on the back of his chair and his eyes are glued to a ball game on the TV. Gabriel—well, suffice it to say that Baize isn't thinking about Uriel’s legs anymore.

What is it about him? The sculpted face? The built physique? The fact that they’ve seen him spin Adam upside-down until he shrieks with laughter, and tolerate pranks from the kid without losing his cool? The fact that he’s called them “Buzz” for years and they _kind of like it_?

Or is it the fact that they know what his thick arm feels like around their waist, what his fingers feel like curling around their own, and, worst of all, they know how warm those lips are, every bit as kissable as they look?

Fuck. Baize needs to hit up Tinder, and soon.

They jerk themselves back to the conversation at the table. Somehow they managed to order food along with everyone else, and now Crowley is updating Adam on the court proceedings. “The psychological evaluation is nothing bad. You might even enjoy it. But it isn’t cheap,” he finishes with a sigh.

“Then this dumb Luke guy should pay for it,” argues Adam.

“The cost is split between the families, so he’ll pay half,” AZ puts in. He smooths his napkin over and over, concern tugging at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sure we can scrape it together, but there’s a chance—well, my dear, we might have to use the money we saved up for your debate trip.”

“What! No way! You promised!” Adam's outraged gesture knocks over his water.

AZ catches the glass with near-miraculous reflexes. “Yes, I know, Adam, but this is—”

“I’ll cover it,” interrupts Gabriel.

“Absolutely not,” AZ replies immediately.

There’s a long moment of silence at the table. Baize blinks in surprise. Wasn't it AZ who all but begged his brother for legal aid? Maybe he reasoned that was Gabriel's line of work, hardly an imposition, nothing like asking for money. They've noticed that AZ has some convoluted thought processes.

Adam gazes with interest between his father and his uncle. Crowley shifts, makes noises in his throat like he might say something, then subsides. Gabriel leans forward on his elbows, eyes locked with AZ’s. “Look. I know you won’t let me fix the roof, but this is different.”

“I’m an adult, Gabriel,” says AZ huffily. “I can take care of myself.”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about the kid. It’s about family. It’s about all of us taking care of each other.”

Baize didn’t know that Gabriel had tried to fix the leaking roof of AZ and Crowley’s wonderfully ramshackle cottage. Part of them bristles at the idea, just like AZ, inclined to shove Gabriel’s wallet right down his throat. _They don’t need you to take care of them,_ _you prick._ But another, larger part of them feels . . . relieved. Baize doesn’t have to be the only one looking out for Adam and his parents. They can share that responsibility.

“Take his money, AZ, for fuck’s sake,” growls Baize. “So Adam’s team can win nationals and you can shave off that ridiculous beard.”

“I _like_ the beard.” AZ looks offended for a moment, and then he laughs. So does Gabriel.

The rest of dinner is more enjoyable than it has any right to be. AZ and Adam try to outdo each other in the consumption of hot salsa until Crowley has to order extra horchata for both of them. Gabriel keeps getting distracted by the game on TV and talking with Adam about power alleys and slurves and other nonsensical garbage. Baize mocks them both mercilessly, asserting that nothing could ever get them interested in baseball. So Gabriel regales them with stories of half a dozen times that bees (and once, scorpions) interrupted major league games. Adam almost laughs himself sick.

Late that night, collecting honey in the dark, Baize's memory unspools the day and they see two faces that look more alike than they’d ever admit aloud. Beautiful blue eyes, honey-colored curls, wide noses and stubborn chins. They hate the fact that a few shared genes and a piece of paper give Luke any place at all in Adam's life. If they could give the kid anything, it would be the gift of kicking Luke out of the picture for good. They can't do that. But they want to do _something_ for him, something to apologize for having brought him into such a shitty world. Something to make it a little better.

Baize wipes honey and wax off their hands, grabs their phone and finds Gabriel’s number. They have it because they’re both emergency contacts for Adam, have to be able to get in touch with each other if one of them’s babysitting. No other reason.

If he texts them photos of any stupid thing he sees with a bee on it, a cafe sign or a t-shirt or a cutesy mug, then that’s just Gabriel’s standard idiocy. Baize can’t be bothered to tell him to stop. And if Baize occasionally stays up late scrolling through the photos and his accompanying comments “reminded me of you” or “buzz buzz,” then that’s their business and nobody else’s.

Baize has never, not once, texted Gabriel anything. Until now.

_Let’s get Adam a dog._

* * *

TWELVE-ISH YEARS AGO

“Can you not shut that baby up for five whole minutes?” snapped Luke, which was rich considering he hadn’t been home for five whole minutes. “What is he, the fucking Antichrist?”

“It’s not like _you_ can make him be quiet!” Bailey raised her voice over Adam’s wails as she stripped sheets from the bed he’d covered with pee during a diaper change. She never had much luck soothing the baby either, but at least she could defend Crowley while he gave it his best.

“Well, I can make _you_ be quiet,” Luke shot back. Was he trying to threaten Bailey or flirt with her? Fuck, it was hard to tell sometimes. Luke stepped out of his shoes, hung up his jacket, and loosened his tie, complaining all the while. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a blowjob around here? I work all day to pay the rent, I ought to come home to more than that little banshee and your tired-ass faces.”

Bailey and Crowley exchanged a look that said, _W_ _ho_ _gets_ _to deal with the big baby and who_ _gets_ _to deal with the little one?_

Crowley was pacing around the small living room, shifting Adam from one shoulder to the other, patting and rocking. His sinuous gait could put the kid right to sleep, if only he had enough space to get going.

“Why don’t you take Adam for a walk?” said Bailey.

Crowley was out of the door almost before the words were out of Bailey’s mouth, and then Luke was on her. He took the ball of dirty sheets and tossed it into a corner. He backed her against the wall, his fingers dipping under her ratty t-shirt and his lips coaxing hers apart.

The problem was, it felt good. Precious few things did anymore. For everything that Bailey hated about Luke—and the list got longer every day—he knew how to get her motor going. He pushed his leg between her thighs and skimmed his nails up her back and licked around her ear, and before long she was on her knees on the threadbare carpet with Luke stroking her hair and crooning filthy compliments as she blotted out her shitty life with the taste of him.

By the time Crowley returned, Adam snoring and drooling on his shoulder, Luke had passed out too. He routinely interspersed all-nighters with falling asleep before dinner.

“Welcome back to the Hellhole,” Bailey murmured as she held the door for Crowley. Luke didn’t find their little nickname for the apartment entertaining—which, of course, made Bailey and Crowley like it even better.

They’d finally gotten a second mattress, so Bailey and Luke could share the bedroom while Crowley and Adam slept in the living room, near the kitchen for midnight feedings. Crowley eased onto the bed now with a serpentine grace that kept Adam locked in slumber.

“Shit,” muttered Bailey, watching them nestle together on the stained mattress. “I was going to put on clean sheets.”

“’S okay, Bee. Don’t need them.” Crowley yawned.

Bailey knew he had to get his sleep whenever Adam did, but she wanted to show him the mail before Luke woke up. “Look, Crow, keep your eyes open for a second. We got Adam’s birth certificate.”

He blinked at the paper she held up for him to read. “Adam _Young_?”

“Fucking weird, right? I thought maybe they sent the wrong one, but everything else is right.”

The baby startled in his sleep, threw up a miniature fist, and clocked Crowley on the nose. Crowley gently tucked his hand back down. “Y’know, I think the people in the room next to ours were the Youngs. The nurse must’ve mixed up the names, d’you remember her?”

“Oh, I remember that nurse.” Bailey rolled her eyes and frowned at the document. “We could probably fix it, but I don’t give a shit. You?”

“Luke’ll be pissed,” said Crowley, so Bailey knew that he didn’t give a shit either. “He really wanted Adam to be a Starr.”

“So we don’t tell him.” Bailey slipped the paper back in its envelope, then squatted next to the bed to consider the baby and his tiny creaking snores. “Hi there, Adam Young.”

He smacked his lips as if he was dreaming about milk, then curved them into a reasonable facsimile of a smile. Crowley’s face went all gooey. Kissing Adam’s fine blonde curls, he whispered, “Are you smiling at your mama?”

Bailey rocked back on her heels. “Shut up,” she snapped. “I’m not his mama.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry.” Crowley shrank and curled around Adam, the way he did whenever Luke started yelling, and now Bailey felt doubly shitty.

She was well aware that she’d been dissociated for the entire pregnancy, drenched in denial. She’d hated labor and delivery, loathed every second spent in the hospital feeling like her body wasn’t her own. In the weeks since, she’d been trying to find a way back into herself, and it was slow going. But there was no sense taking it out on Crowley. She reached over the baby to squeeze his shoulder.

He relaxed at her touch and yawned again. “D’you want me to call you—”

“I like it when you call me Bee,” she interrupted.

“Good,” he mumbled, eyes closing. “I like it when you call me Crow.”

Bailey brushed the red tangles back from his face and tucked them behind his ear. It looked like he hadn’t combed his hair in days. Tomorrow she’d take Adam for a couple of hours and make sure Crowley had time to shower, do his nails, whatever he wanted.

She got up and went to check on Luke, who was snoring and drooling even more copiously than the baby. When she returned to the living room, Crowley’s breaths had already turned as steady and even as Adam’s. And just like that, Bailey was the only one awake in the Hellhole.

She rescued a half-smoked joint from her underwear drawer, finished it out on the balcony, then settled down with her computer to apply for jobs. She knew it would be as fruitless as it had been every day since she’d been fired from the diner.

But two months later, the day after Adam had (according to Crowley) rolled over for the first time, which was (also according to Crowley) a Big Deal, Bailey hit the jackpot. Or she would have, if the jackpot was a full-time job with benefits that started next week. The e-mail arrived right after Luke had left for work.

She burst into the kitchen, where Crowley was giving the baby a bath in the sink. “I got a job!”

“That’s great, Bee!” exclaimed Crowley, scratching at the cradle cap under Adam’s hair. “Where is it? Did you tell Luke?”

Bailey knew he was really asking, _Will Luke stop yelling_ _now_ _?_ _Will things get better?_ She grinned. Things were about to get a whole lot better. “It’s at a bank in some city called Tadfield.”

Crowley looked up sharply. “Where’s that?”

“New Mexico.”

Adam took advantage of his parent’s distraction to shove most of the washcloth into his mouth. Crowley, frozen in place, didn’t even try to reclaim it. “So you’re . . . leaving?”

At first, Bailey didn't understand why he looked crushed. Then she realized. “Oh fuck, no! I mean, yes, I am leaving, and so are you. I'm taking you and Adam with me.” She took a deep breath. “Shit, did you think I’d _leave_ you here? With _Luke_?”

“Oh no, yeah, no, I—didn’t.”

He did. For a handful of seconds he absolutely did think that. Bailey wanted to wring her own neck. She settled for handing Crowley a towel.

He pulled Adam out of the bubbles and began to pat him dry. “How do we, I mean. The bus? Do we have enough money to . . .”

“Fuck the bus.” Bailey tossed him a clean-ish onesie. “Get that baby dressed. We’re going to get your car.”

Crowley had told her about the Bentley right after Adam was born, when she’d first noticed a car seat in the pile of baby shit he’d gotten from his family. She’d been furious on his behalf, but there had been more immediate concerns. Now, the Bentley _was_ her immediate concern.

“I don’t know if they’ll, you know, like you,” Crowley said nervously, as they climbed off the bus in his old neighborhood.

“Shit, I hope they don’t.” Bailey pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “I got this, Crow, you don’t even have to talk. Just hold the baby.”

So Crowley carried Adam as Bailey marched up and pounded on the front door. A girl with pink lipstick that clashed gloriously with her red hair yanked it open and demanded, “Who are you?”

“I’m your worst nightmare, if you don’t cooperate.” Bailey pushed into the house, beckoning Crowley to follow. “We’re moving out of state. We need Crowley’s car.”

The girl folded her arms and shook her head. “It’s Raffi’s.”

Bailey stalked through the living room. She plowed her fingers through the crap piled on the kitchen counter, pulled open the silverware drawer and rifled through it. “Where are the keys?”

A dramatic sigh. “Raffi has them.”

“Then where’s Raffi?”

“Right fucking here.”

Crowley’s brother rolled up from the couch, looking like every bully Bailey had ever known. His shirt clung to his muscles; stubble spread from his cheeks to his throat.

Bailey lunged forward and grabbed his collar. “Listen up, fuckwit. You and I both know that stealing your brother’s car is not the worst thing you’ve ever done. If you don’t give us those keys, I’ll find out what _is_. And I will take you to the fucking cleaners.”

“Who the hell d’you think you—”

Bailey yanked until she heard seams rip. “Crowley is nice. I am not nice. I am a goddamn terror, and you don’t want to piss me off any more than you already have. Give us the keys and let us drive out of town, and you’ll never have to think about us again.”

As she spoke, she watched fear bubble up behind the anger in Raffi’s eyes. When she released his shirt, he shuffled into another room. He came back with a key ring and threw it at Crowley, who caught it with his free hand and a smirk.

The pink-lipped girl laughed, eyes shining as she gazed at Bailey. “Anthony, I don’t know where you found this one, but I’m in love. Does she have a brother?”

“Fuck you,” said Bailey. The girl laughed again, fanned herself, and opened the garage door.

The Bentley just looked like a car to Bailey, but she liked how it lit Crowley up. He passed Adam to Bailey and ran his hand over the bonnet, then opened the driver’s door with a reverent click and slid into the seat like a lover coming home to his beloved.

Bailey climbed in and cradled Adam on her lap, realizing that they’d forgotten the car seat. “Drive slow,” she warned when Crowley gunned the engine.

He scoffed. “Like I’d forget you’re holding my baby.”

And indeed, Crowley inched so carefully along quiet back streets that Bailey was sure they’d have returned to the apartment faster on the bus. She hoped this brief trip wasn’t an augur of the long drive to Tadfield.

It was not. Once they’d packed their things and gotten Adam safely buckled in, Crowley cranked up the radio and whirled the Bentley onto the road at near-terminal velocity. Bailey slammed her hand against the roof for balance. “Holy shit, Crowley, where did you learn to drive?”

“My uncle taught me.” Crowley navigated a byzantine freeway interchange like it was his natural habitat, crossing four lanes of traffic and spinning around a cloverleaf. “He did autocross racing, let me try it with his car sometimes.”

“Huh. He sounds like an all right guy,” said Bailey, who hadn’t expected redeeming features from anyone in Crowley’s family.

“Made me give him a hand job in the back seat.”

Bailey ground her teeth. “That really fucking sucks, Crow. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well, he’s dead now. Don’t drink and drive, kids!”

Bailey stared at him, wishing she could say anything to make it better, knowing she couldn’t. So she turned her head to watch the city melt into soulless suburbs and mused, “I’d like to be in charge of Hell, I think. So I could punish all the assholes when they show up.”

“You’d be great at it. You scared the piss out of Raffi back there. It was _transcendent_.”

“You could help. Be a master of torments.”

“Nah, even if I were a demon, I’d rather be spreading discord and temptation on Earth than punishing people in Hell.” He paused, and his voice got quieter. “They punish themselves, you know.”

 _You are the torment of yourself and every stranger,_ Rumi had written. Her father’s poetry book was one of the few possessions Bailey had been sure to throw in the trunk. “You should meet my dad.”

“Whoa there!” Crowley snorted. “Don’t you think that’s moving a little fast? We’ve only cohabited for a year and had a baby and are moving halfway across the country together.”

“Fuck off,” said Bailey, laughing. Crowley laughed too, and turned up the music. Bailey watched the last trickles of the city dry up in rolling farmland as she listened to him howl along with Freddie Mercury, _I want to break free from your lies you’re so self satisfied I don’t need you_.

She hadn’t seen her father since graduation. How had it been so long? Holidays had come and gone, and they’d talked on the phone a few times. He’d said “You’re always welcome” but he hadn’t extended any specific invitations, so Bailey hadn’t needed to turn him down. Communication with her mother had been restricted to occasional e-mails with interesting articles about current events.

Bailey had gotten pregnant and delivered a baby without her parents knowing, and it hadn’t even been hard.

The CD looped back to the start with _Buddy, you’re a boy, make a big noise_ , and Adam began to cry in the back seat. Within seconds he’d reached siren pitch. They were driving through the middle of ass-nowhere, so Crowley pulled off the highway and parked in the dust.

“You change him and I’ll feed him,” he offered.

“Ugh,” said Bailey, but she scooped Adam out of his seat and grabbed the diaper bag. Changing was faster than feeding. She spread her jacket on the hood of the Bentley and laid Adam on it, gingerly extracting him from the mess he’d made. Then she reached down for a clean diaper--and straightened up to see him rolling off the jacket to teeter at the edge of the bonnet.

“Holy fuck!” Bailey grabbed Adam, adrenaline screaming through her veins.

“I _told_ you rolling was a big deal,” said Crowley, screwing the nipple onto a bottle of formula.

“You little shit,” gasped Bailey. She could feel her heart still pounding where she clutched Adam to her chest.

“Me or him?”

“Both of you,” she muttered. “Fucking hell.”

As she wrangled Adam back into his clothes, Bailey realized quite suddenly that she liked him. Not because he was looking particularly precious at that moment. In fact, he was fussing and flailing, but Bailey got it. Sometimes she wanted to fuss and flail too. She still didn’t know what do for herself, but at least she knew what to do for Adam.

She gave him to Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bees in baseball: https://ftw.usatoday.com/2016/03/a-comprehensive-history-of-bees-attacking-major-league-baseball-players
> 
> Have I been reading entirely too much about both beekeeping and custody law in order to write this? Yes. Am I still getting things wrong and sometimes skimping on accuracy for plot purposes? Also, yes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Questioning is half of knowledge;_   
>  _not everyone knows how to ask._   
>  _\- Rumi_

Crowley should have listened to his suspicions when Baize offered to host Adam’s twelfth birthday party. Sure, the whole family wanted to do something special for Adam. His debate team had just missed placing at nationals, and the sluggish pace of the psychological evaluation cast a shadow over the first half of summer.

But still, Crowley should have asked Baize why they felt inclined to invite a gang of twelve-year-olds to their place, where they’ve never invited anyone outside the family. Crowley knows for a fact that Baize’s occasional hookups always happen at the other person’s house. Once they called him for a ride home from a “fucking intolerable situation” and Crowley had been ready to barge in swinging Adam’s baseball bat, until Baize clarified that they were only suffering the _Rocky_ soundtrack on repeat. Crowley rescued them anyway, but it was two a.m. and he was grumpy about it.

Anyway. The point is, he should have been suspicious. Because as soon as he and AZ and Adam set foot on Baize’s property, a small scruffy dog bounds toward them, and from the way the dog and Adam glom onto each other, Crowley’s pretty sure that dog is coming home with them.

“Happy birthday, Adam!” Baize smiles one of their rare, genuine smiles. They’re dressed in clean khakis and a pale blue button-down that brings out the color of their eyes, but Crowley isn’t in any mood to be charmed.

They just inflicted a _dog_ on him.

Although, it appears they’re not the only one to blame. Gabriel stands to one side in a soft gray summer suit, grinning like a fool as he watches Adam wrestle with his birthday present. The purple bow around the dog’s neck has to be Gabriel’s fault, because Crowley can’t imagine Baize tying a bow around anything, ever.

“Well,” says AZ, who unlike Crowley has mustered words. “My goodness, how about that!”

Gabriel beams at his brother, then turns to his nephew. “What are you going to name him, Adam?”

“I’ll name him Dog. Saves a lot of trouble, a name like that.” Adam ruffles the dog’s one inside-out ear and looks up with shining eyes. “Thanks, Bee. Thanks, Uncle Gabe.”

It doesn’t seem like the right time for Crowley to say, _Where is_ _this beast_ _going to sleep and who’s going to pay for his food and what if he pisses on the houseplants?_ He glances sideways at AZ, who seems too taken with the idyllic scene of a boy and his dog to be disturbed by practical matters.

He’ll be plenty disturbed when Dog starts chewing on his books.

An old VW van comes crunching and shuddering up the drive, and Adam’s friends Pepper and Brian explode out of it. Pepper’s mom shouts through the window that Brian’s dad will pick both kids up, because she’s going on a holistic wellness retreat for the weekend, so Pepper’s staying with Brian and seeyouMondayPepperIloveyoubye.

Adam waves them over. “Brian! Pepper! Come meet Dog!”

The two kids shove their presents for Adam into Crowley’s arms so they can drop to their knees in the dirt and exclaim over the new pet. Dog, suddenly subjected to petting by six hands, wriggles in ecstasy.

Crowley can’t help cracking a smile, despite his reservations. As he carries the presents to a folding table that Baize set up in the shade of their sweet acacia, a clean silver Prius pulls up. The exact sort of boy you’d expect from a car like that climbs carefully out of the back seat.

It must be Wensleydale, the only guest Crowley hasn’t met yet. His family moved to Tadfield at the end of the school year, and Adam absorbed Wensleydale into his circle with his usual easy kindness. It's the sort of thing that makes Crowley think, for all his parenting fuckups, he must have done something right.

Then again, maybe it’s just Adam, and he’d be like that even if Luke had raised him. Crowley swallows down the sour taste that comes with that idea. He doesn’t want to think about Luke today.

“Good-bye, Junior, be careful, and have a good time,” frets Wensleydale’s mother. She doesn’t actually leave until AZ comes over to introduce himself, shake her hand, and assure her how very wholesome the party will be.

It certainly starts out wholesome as fuck. As Mrs. Wensleydale drives away, AZ claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’re all here now, what a delight! Are you ready for the magic show?”

“Yes!” the kids holler good-naturedly. They settle down on a picnic blanket under the tree with Dog rolling from lap to lap.

“What about food?” inquires Brian.

Crowley gives him a mock scowl. “We’re working on it, you bottomless pit.”

AZ twirls his wand, and Crowley escapes to Baize’s kitchen. He’s certain every year will be the last year Adam and his friends tolerate AZ’s corny magic show. Crowley can’t decide whether or not he wants to be there on the day they start throwing cake.

Baize joins him to help cut sandwiches, and Crowley grumbles, “Thanks for the fucking hellhound.”

“Oh please. He’s practically a lapdog.” But they look marginally contrite. “Look, you don’t have to take him home today. He can stay here until you’re ready for him.”

“How kind." Crowley tears open a bag of chips and empties it into a bowl. "What if Adam ends up with Luke, and I’m stuck with the dog?”

“Are you kidding? Adam would take Dog and teach him to shit in Luke’s bed. You’d get them both back within a week. Consider the dog a _safety measure_.”

Crowley almost smiles, but he’s wound too tight. He hates how this whole legal affair is dragging on, wants it all over and decided. At the same time, he’s terrified for the next court appearance, would rather stay in limbo forever.

“Look at that asshole. He can’t go five minutes without taking a call,” mutters Baize.

Crowley follows their gaze through the kitchen window to see Gabriel pacing in front of the house, phone to his ear. Baize’s reaction strikes Crowley as more than a little hypocritical, since _they_ have no problem letting work infringe on their personal time.

“We all find our ways of coping with the magic show,” he says instead, sandwich trays balanced on both hands as he heads back outside. He catches AZ’s final act: pulling a coin from behind Adam’s ear with a flourish.

The trick is hilariously unimpressive, but the coin is a real Roman denarius, and the kids crowd around to admire it. Crowley overhears Wensleydale comment quietly to Adam, “I don’t mean anything bad by this, but your dad actually seems gay.”

Adam laughs. “Wait until you meet my mom. Mom! Hey, Mom!” Crowley ambles over from the table where he left the sandwiches. “This is Wensleydale. Wensleydale, this is my mom.”

“Hi,” says Crowley to the kid’s very wide eyes. “Adam calls you Wensleydale, and I heard your mom call you Junior. What do you want me to call you?”

“Wensleydale’s good. I like it better than my first name. It has more gravitas.” He pushes his glasses thoughtfully up his nose. “Are you really Adam’s mom?”

“Yep. You can call me Crowley. I don’t like my first name, either.”

“That’s cool. Why not?”

“It was my dad’s, and he was a shithead.”

“Language,” tuts AZ, but without any force. He knows about Crowley’s family.

“Actually, I read that it’s becoming quite common for parents to repurpose surnames as given names,” says Wensleydale, and Crowley tries not to make a face at his chosen reading material.

“Like Greasy Johnson!” Brian exclaims.

“His older brother’s name is Warlock,” says Adam, scratching Dog’s belly. “I wonder if that’s a repurposed surname, too.”

“Warlock! Does he know magic?” Pepper waves at AZ. “Not like stage magic, I mean, like blood and eyeballs in a stewpot.”

“Neither kind, I’m afraid.” AZ chuckles. “I tutored him when he was about the age you are now, and since then he's been a faithful correspondent. He's studying cinematography now, which I suppose is its own kind of magic.”

“Do you know any family secrets we can use to blackmail Greasy?” asks Brian hopefully.

“Absolutely not! What an idea.” AZ shakes his head. “I simply don’t understand how you children can be so inclusive and still carry on such a dreadful feud with that poor boy.”

“He’s the one who started it,” asserts Pepper. “Always wrecking our clubhouse.”

“He snitches on us, then gets mad if we snitch on him,” Brian points out.

Adam folds his arms to make the final pronouncement. “He’s big and dumb, and I hate him.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

All heads turn to Baize. They’re sprawled in a folding chair, drinking a soda and gazing out over the field. Crowley had assumed they weren’t tracking the conversation.

Adam frowns. “You do?”

“Sure. That’s how I feel about your Huncle Babe.”

“I thought you liked Uncle Gabe!” Adam looks first at Gabriel, who’s still on his phone in the shade of the house, then at Pepper, who gives an emphatic nod. “You _kissed_ him.”

This doesn’t surprise Crowley, except that it absolutely does. Baize kissed Gabriel? Why does Adam possess this critical knowledge when Crowley does not? Crowley glares at Baize, who ignores him to take a long pull of their soda.

Then they lean forward, addressing Adam. “Are you saying you _don’t_ want to kiss Greasy Johnson?”

Chaos erupts.

Pepper launches into an empassioned speech in support of all forms of sexual awakening, which encourages Wensleydale to chime in with a textbook explanation of hormones and their effect on cognitive function. Adam is arguing with both of them at once, and Brian doesn’t know what to say, but that doesn’t stop him from saying it.

Crowley’s fine. He just needs to lean on the back of AZ’s chair and steady himself for a moment. It makes perfect sense that Adam and Johnson have a mutual crush that they’ve been acting out through schoolyard torments. It’s normal and age-appropriate and . . . not something Crowley is ready to think about.

He looks down at AZ, who wears an expression of bemused fascination. No help there. Crowley tries out another glare on Baize, hoping this one will be more effective. “Weren’t you going to show the kids your hives?”

“Fine, fine, okay.” Baize drains the last of the can and gets to their feet. “Who wants fresh honey?”

Shouts of “Me! I do!” turn the conversation mercifully away from the topic of pre-teen kissing. Baize gathers the kids, but shakes their head at Dog. “Better leave him here, Adam. He’s still getting used to the bees, and he might scare them or get stung.”

Adam hesitates, his heart already given to the beast. “Maybe I should stay with him.”

“I’ll stay with Dog, Adam, you go and enjoy the honey,” says AZ, pulling out a book. Crowley considers this AZ’s most impressive magic trick, that he seems able to summon books from the ether.

Crowley wonders whether he has any chance at a serious conversation about pet ownership with AZ, now that the book is open. As he considers his opening move, he notices that Gabriel finished his phone call and is now jogging across the field to catch up with Baize’s group.

Crowley’s curiosity compels him to follow.

By the time he sidles up to Gabriel, everyone is watching Baize pry the lid off a hive with their bare hands. Bees flit around their head and shoulders, landing briefly, then humming back into the air. Gabriel looks gobsmacked.

“I thought they’d use a veil, or smoke or something,” he whispers, like he’s at church.

“Nope,” says Crowley cheerfully. “They know what they’re doing. And so do the bees.”

“Wow.” Gabriel can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

Baize holds up a full honey frame and lets Adam explain to his friends how the bees make comb and fill each perfect hexagon with the nectar they collect. Then Baize invites the kids to take fingerfuls of honey. “It’s okay to break the wax, don’t worry about it.”

“Isn’t that cruel, after they worked so hard to build it?” inquires Wensleydale.

“Nah, it’s not a big deal. They can eat the spilled honey and fix the comb.” As the kids dive in, Baize glances over their heads. “What about you two? Want some honey?”

Ostensibly, they’re addressing both Crowley and Gabriel, but Crowley doesn’t miss the way their eyes lock onto Gabriel’s like magnets, returning the intensity of his gaze.

Crowley snakes one long arm between Adam and Pepper to jam his finger into the wax. Adam grins at him, and he grins back. _How did four kids get so sticky from five minutes at a beehive_ , he wonders. Maybe he should hose them all off before sending them home. He steps away to suck the honey off his finger, curious if Gabriel will take the invitation.

He does. He moves toward the hive, looking nervous. Crowley doesn’t think it’s because of the bees zipping around, landing on his sleeves and hair as they do everywhere else. He think it’s because of the hungry way Baize watches him touch one finger to the dripping comb in their hands, tentative at first, just brushing the surface.

“Go ahead,” they tell him. “There’s plenty.”

So Gabriel pushes harder, his sizeable fingertip breaking the waxy walls, sliding through the sweet viscious fluid that comes pouring out until his finger is coated past the first knuckle. His eyes flick between the frame and Baize’s face. Then he pulls his finger out, lifts it to his mouth, and licks it off. Slowly. Carefully. All the while staring at Baize, who is staring right back at him.

 _Holy fuck_ , thinks Crowley. This is some R-rated shit. The kids are oblivious, swiping more honey, chewing the wax and spitting it on the ground, but Crowley considers the situation far too obscene for their innocent eyes. He clears his throat. “Come on, Adam, let’s check on Dog. Dad has no idea how to take care of him, you know?”

“Oh yeah, oh gosh, let’s go back,” agrees Adam, scooping almost an entire handful from the hive. “Come on, guys, let’s see if Dog likes honey!”

Gabriel breaks eye contact with Baize to caution him, “A little honey is all right for dogs, but don’t give him too much, okay?”

“Okay, Uncle Gabe, don’t worry, I’ll eat most of this.” Adam starts on his promise as he and his friends race back across the field toward the acacia tree.

Crowley follows them in order to give Gabriel and Baize the alone time they so obviously need. But Gabriel catches up with him right away, talking nonstop as the man can do about nothing at all. Crowley looks behind him to see Baize fitting the frame back into the hive and tamping the lid down.

Why the hell wouldn’t Gabriel stay with them? Crowley doesn’t feel like he can ask. And by the time they’ve rejoined the party, Gabriel is looking at his phone, muttering about the time. He can’t stay for cake and presents, he’s so sorry, he’s got to work.

 _Bullshit_ , thinks Crowley, _you are fucking terrified of Baize and you’re running away_.

But Gabriel doesn’t do a complete runner. He takes a few minutes to discuss dog care with Adam first. Part of the gift is apparently a financial plan that Baize and Gabriel came up with, to help Adam pay for food, vet bills, and miscellaneous pet needs.

“See,” says Baize, strolling up to Crowley and digging a finger into his ribs. “We’re not monsters.”

“Agree to disagree.” Crowley rubs the sore spot. “But. Yeah. Thanks.”

Gabriel hugs Adam and offers a jovial good-bye to the rest of the group, then strides off to his car. As the kids descend on the pile of presents, Crowley gives Baize an equally painful poke in the ribs and jerks his head toward the retreating lawyer. “Ask him out, Bee.”

They huff out an irritated breath. “No.”

“I’m not telling you to propose marriage, for hell’s sake. I’m telling you to buy him a coffee and have an _adult conversation_.”

Baize can hardly miss the emphasis he puts on those words. They make a horrible face at him.

“Juice,” suggests AZ, who’s been eavesdropping. “Gabriel doesn’t drink coffee. Or tea. Much to our mother’s dismay.”

“Of course he fucking doesn’t,” growls Baize. “And I live on the stuff. What, in the name of all that’s unholy, makes you think anything would work between us?”

AZ shakes his head in exasperated fondness. “The way he looks at you, Baize. It’s like the way Adam’s looking at Dog.”

Crowley scoffs. “More like the way Dog’s looking at Adam.”

* * *

_TEN YEARS AGO_

“Now Johnson, let Adam have the ball. You didn’t even want to play with it until he picked it up. Johnson! No hitting! Come here right now, you’re going in time-out.”

Crowley sighed. He was shoulder-deep in the Dowlings’ largest aquarium, scrubbing algae as he listened to Harriet supervise a supposed playdate between Adam and Johnson. He should be grateful— _was_ grateful—that she welcomed Adam into her home on Crowley’s work days, preparing an extra snack for him and forcing her son to share his toys.

Crowley just wished he could explain to Harriet that Adam had probably picked up the ball hoping Johnson _would_ grab it from him. That was normal play for two-year-olds. And hauling her own kid upstairs while he cried about it, as she was doing now, wouldn’t give him a chance to develop more sophisticated social skills.

“Mama, Jonna sad,” Adam informed Crowley gravely. He toddled over and plopped down on the damp dropcloth, rubbing his eyes. Crowley had pushed this cleaning visit too close to naptime, but he had a secret agenda.

“Yes, Johnson’s sad.” Crowley made faces at an angelfish as he replaced the protein skimmer hose and valves.

“Jonna mama help?”

“His mama is doing what she thinks is best,” said Crowley diplomatically. “Here, want to clean the castle?”

“Yeah, Adam help!” He picked up a cloth to wipe the stone decoration with intense focus and pride.

Crowley smiled. When he’d started in-home aquarium care, Adam had slept through most jobs in a carrier on Crowley’s back. As he grew old enough to stay awake, he’d watched with wide eyes while Crowley explained everything he did. And once Adam began grabbing Crowley’s tools, Crowley began setting him down on the floor with a task, sometimes invented and sometimes genuinely useful.

It had only been in the last few months that Adam’s interest in Johnson had drawn him away from Crowley’s side. The kid was clearly ready for more interaction with his peers. Preschool was around the corner.

“What a dedicated assistant,” came the warm voice of AZ Fell, tutor to Johnson’s older brother. Crowley’s heart bounced around his rib cage in a panic, despite the fact that he’d planned for this.

“Yeah. Uh. Adam’s a great helper.” Crowley nearly dropped his scrub brush when he saw the happy crinkle of AZ’s eyes behind his tiny, adorable reading glasses.

AZ crouched down to talk to Adam. “You’ve gotten that castle so clean I think I’d like to live in it. Right up at the top, in that tower. Which room would you like to live in?”

“I fink I live onna stairs. Da stairs are a _spiral_. I love da spiral.”

Crowley listened to AZ chat with Adam, who was apparently a better conversationalist than his mom, and tried not to swoon. He’d been helplessly charmed by the man ever since they first met here, over a year ago. AZ spoke to everyone kindly, from the Dowling parents to pre-teen Warlock to toddler Johnson—and now to Crowley and Adam as well. He wore old-fashioned suits that weren’t expensive enough to be vintage, spoke with a trace of an English accent, and treated his books like he’d inherited them from God.

Crowley had casually asked Harriet about him, and she’d been delighted to recount how he’d entered their lives.

Warlock had always struggled with reading. By third grade he wouldn’t even try anything his teacher assigned, so a desperate Harriet had taken him to a bookshop and told him to pick out whatever he liked. Warlock had found the only thing in the store that wasn’t a book: a sword cane, gathering dust in a corner.

Harriet told him to put it back and find a book. Warlock refused. Their quarrel was heating up when the store’s owner came over and gently interrupted to tell Warlock a story about the sword cane’s epic swashbuckling history. The owner then found three different books with similarly compelling stories, and sold them to Warlock at half-price.

Harriet, pregnant with Johnson and knowing that Warlock needed more attention than she could give, begged AZ (of course the bookshop owner was AZ) to come and tutor him. With his patient guidance Warlock had not only moved up several reading levels, but cultivated an actual taste in literature, complete with favorite authors and genres.

Crowley was pretty sure he’d managed not to fall _visibly_ head over heels when he’d heard all this from Harriet.

“Okay, Adam, ready with that castle?” Crowley lifted up the boy so he could replace it in the aquarium, then set him back on the floor, rolled up the dropcloth, and hoisted his cleaning kit. “Let’s blow this joint.”

Adam held out his arms to be picked up. Crowley shook his head. “Sorry, kid, you gotta use your strong legs. I have a lot to carry.”

“Let me help,” said AZ unexpectedly, taking off his glasses and slipping them in his pocket. Before Crowley could answer, AZ had swung his own satchel around to his back and easily lifted the supplies from Crowley’s arms.

Crowley swallowed. The knowledge that AZ could heft his entire cleaning kit as if it were just another book was doing things to his insides.

“Up, Mama!” demanded Adam, distracting him from thoughts of what else AZ might be able to heft. Crowley scooped up the kid and shouted a good-bye to Harriet, who was probably trying to wrangle Johnson down for a nap.

AZ walked them out to the Bentley, where he settled the supplies in the trunk while Crowley buckled Adam into his seat. Then Crowley asked, with careful nonchalance, “Ride home?” He knew AZ lived in a tiny apartment over the bookshop, had driven him there from the Dowlings’ a couple of times before.

“Oh, that would be splendid, if it’s no imposition.” AZ lowered himself into the front seat, satchel tucked tidily on his lap. “I love to see you and Adam together, you know. I don’t mean any offense to Harriet, but she so rarely _listens_ to Warlock and Johnson the way you listen to Adam.”

Crowley’s cheeks felt hot, a sure sign that they’d turned splotchy pink. He sometimes wished he had sunglasses for his whole face. “You’re, um, not a bad listener yourself.”

“My mother would be gratified to hear you say it.” AZ chuckled. “She was always after my brother and me for not listening to her, or to each other. But he only wanted to talk, and I only wanted to read.”

“Your brother sounds like a bit of a blowhard.”

“Oh, he isn’t really. We get along quite well now. Especially since he went into law so he could make other people listen to him, and the burden no longer falls to me.”

Crowley laughed. AZ chattered away. And no matter how slowly Crowley drove, they had to end up at the bookshop.

“Thank you so much for the ride, my dear,” said AZ, unbuckling and leaning into the backseat to say good-bye to Adam. “Oh! The little angel’s asleep already.”

Crowley twisted around to check. Sure enough, Adam’s eyes were closed, his mouth half-open, his cheek smooshed against the side of his headrest. _Success._

Crowley turned to look at AZ, who was just turning to look at him. Neither expected to find their faces so very close together. The tips of their noses brushed. Crowley sucked in a breath, and thought he might drown in the scent of AZ’s cologne. AZ glanced, for an unmistakable second, at Crowley’s lips.

“Want to go for a drive?” blurted Crowley.

AZ fell back into his seat, fussing with his satchel. “Oh dear, that sounds lovely, but I have to open the shop.”

“You don’t,” wheedled Crowley. “Harriet says half the time you’re inside, you keep it closed, because you don’t feel like selling books. Come on, let’s go.”

“Ah—where?”

“Anywhere you want. I’m used to driving Adam around for his nap. Out of town, into the desert. We’ve got at least an hour, maybe two, before he wakes up.” _Plenty of time to find a quiet_ _place to park and_ _kiss you senseless. Or you can kiss me senseless. I’m not particular._

“I can’t, I—” AZ’s eyes were wide, almost heartbroken. “You have a partner, Crowley, it isn’t _right_. You two have a child together, my goodness, I couldn’t possibly—I’m so sorry, Crowley, good-bye.”

He opened the car door and almost fell out, hastily disappearing into the bookshop. The CLOSED sign in the window did not flip to OPEN.

Crowley dropped his head to the steering wheel and groaned. Fucking _hell_. He’d been _so close_. He gunned the engine and aimed for the hills, dodging out of the city by the quickest route he knew. If he wasn’t such a coward, he’d have kissed AZ right there in the car. Now he might never get another chance—

But AZ hadn’t said he wasn’t _interested_. He hadn’t said he didn’t _want to_. He’d just said it wasn’t _right_ , and if he had stayed a minute longer, Crowley could’ve explained that there wasn’t anything wrong about it, because he and Bee were—

Well. Whatever they were.

Hmm.

“Hey Adam,” he said, then checked in the mirror to make sure the kid was still sound asleep. “I should probably talk to Bee.”

When Adam woke up after an hour’s meandering drive, Crowley brought him home for a snack and a bath, then set him up with a bucket of mismatched plastic toys he’d found for two dollars at a garage sale. Crowley was starting to chop vegetables for dinner when Baize banged through the apartment door.

“I want that knife,” Baize growled, throwing their jacket over a chair and stomping into the kitchen.

Crowley handed the weapon over and gave Baize’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. They’d never loved working at the bank, and coming out as nonbinary and changing their name hadn’t improved the experience. “Rough day?”

“Usual shit,” they answered as they mercilessly whacked at an onion. “Half the clients calling me _ma’am_ or _miss_ like they can’t read my fucking nametag. Boss dumped a real oddball on me today, guy trying to get a loan to keep his bee farm going. Said he’d rather sell it outright, but only developers want the land, and he wants to sell it to someone who’ll keep the bees.”

Crowley pulled out a pot, filled it with water, and put it on the stove to boil. “A bee farm, hunh. I guess he sells honey?”

“Honey and pollen, and he breeds and sells queens too. Sounds like it could pay well enough, but he’s shit with finances and always in the hole. I thought--” They chewed on their lip. “Thought I might even see how low an offer he’ll take.”

“Whoa,” said Crowley.

“Yeah, whoa,” Baize mimicked, dumping the onion into a bowl. “What’s up with you? You sound like you’re stoned. Or concussed.”

Crowley's laugh held an edge of hysteria. His interaction with AZ had, in fact, felt like a minor concussion. “Uh, well, I’ve been thinking . . .” He cleared his throat. “What are we doing?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re making dinner.”

From the other room Adam shouted, “Boom! Da aliens crash inna ocean! Whales come swimming, dey yell, we’ll save you, aliens!”

Crowley tried again. “I mean, this. You and me. What are we . . .”

"Oh, I see." Baize set down the knife, eyes narrowed. “You want to define our relationship. Why? What happened?”

“I, um. It’s because there’s. AZ. The tutor I mentioned. Do you remember him?”

“God, do I. You don’t shut up about him, did you know that? So you want to, what, fuck him?”

“No! I mean, yes? I don’t know! I just, today I asked him to go for a drive with me.” Crowley picked up a spoon to stir the water, even though it didn’t need to be stirred. “He said he couldn’t, because I have a partner, and then he left before I could explain that it’s okay. It is okay, right?”

“He couldn’t go for a _drive_ because you have a partner?” Baize looked incredulous. “What, did you pull out your dick when you asked?”

“Jesus, Bee, of course not!” Crowley’s face felt hotter than the stovetop. “But we were, uh, having a moment.”

“Fuck’s sake. A moment.” They grabbed a zucchini and went back to chopping. “Well, maybe it isn’t okay with him, did you think of that? Maybe he’s dead set on monogamy.”

“I know, I know.” Crowley bit the inside of his cheek. He’d thought about it, of course, wondered what he’d do for AZ. Wondered what he _wouldn’t_ do for AZ, if AZ asked. “I could, I’d be willing—I mean, I don’t know. I don’t want to—”

“You know what? You can fucking finish this.” Baize slammed the knife back down and headed for the doorway.

Crowley blinked. “Where are you going?”

“To hang out with Adam, because at least he’s not a self-preoccupied _prick_ who doesn’t know what he wants.”

Crowley heard a happy cry of “Bee! Looka my whales! Dis one fits inna ‘paceship!” from the other room, and an indistinct answer from Baize.

He boiled pasta and sauteed veggies and heated sauce like an automaton, sinking thought by wretched thought into self-loathing. He’d fucked up again, like he always did. He’d thought he was doing so well since the move to Tadfield, but apparently not. Adam and Baize would be better off without him.

A gentle voice in his head refuted those thoughts even as they bubbled up, reminding him that he was Adam’s very favorite person, that he and Baize had quarreled before and always sorted it out after. _And you’re a good listener_ , the voice added, in a slight British accent.

Dinner was taken up with helping Adam manage both his spaghetti and the plot of his increasingly complex whale-and-alien adventure story, which lasted all the way through post-dinner cleanup, tooth-brushing, and pajamas.

By the time Crowley had gotten the whales, the aliens, and Adam to sleep, Baize had turned out the lights and gone to bed themselves. Crowley shed his clothes and crawled in next to them. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t sure they were awake. “I _am_ a self-preoccupied prick.”

Baize snorted and flopped one arm over his skinny chest, pulling him close.

He pressed his face into their hair. “What do _you_ want, Bee?”

“I want to buy some land and keep bees. And I want to be safe. I want all of us to be safe.” Crowley felt their heavy sigh. “I barely got us away from Luke. We’ve been fine for two years, and now you want to fuck with it, for what?”

He had to say it. He had to say it out loud because he needed Bee to know this wasn’t frivolous, this was his whole heart on the line. “I’m in love with AZ.”

“Dumbass.” And then, more quietly, “I figured.”

“And look, I—I don’t even know for sure he’s interested. Maybe the bit about a partner was just an excuse. ‘S not like I’m much of a catch, let’s be honest.”

Baize thumped him hard on the shoulder. “If you’re fishing for reassurance that you’re hot, right after telling me you’d be willing to throw me over completely, you’re shit out of luck.”

Crowley winced. “Sorry.”

“Spare me. I don’t know what you want, and it’s not my fucking job to figure it out, but I do love you.”

“I love you, too,” said Crowley. It was deeply, messily true, even though they almost never said it, even though they’d never been in love with each other. “And I don’t want--don’t want to throw you over.”

“So figure out what you _do_ want. Have an adult conversation with AZ, not a _moment_. And if he’s interested, we can, I don’t know, have him over for dinner or something. Okay?”

Crowley hugged them closer, his long fingers fitting into the familiar shape of their body, grateful for both their softness and their hardness. “That’s a great idea. Yeah, you really should meet him. He’s nothing at all like Luke. He’s like—an actual angel.”

They snorted. “How nice for you.”

“He has a brother.”

“Ha ha fucking ha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to GoodbyeVanny for the wonderfully horrible idea of a hookup playing the _Rocky_ soundtrack.
> 
> Much much gratitude to Euny_Sloane for relationship insights (and any faults in my portrayals are no fault of hers).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Making an effort isn’t fighting destiny,_   
>  _because destiny itself has given us this work._   
>  _-Rumi_

This time, Baize keeps their eyes fixed on Luke’s face from the instant they walk into the courtroom. The psychological evaluation has been finished and filed, in whatever bullshit triplicate forms are required by this legal farce. The recommendation: Adam stays with Crowley.

Judge Nutter doesn’t have to follow the recommendation, but Uriel thinks that she will. And Baize can’t _wait_ to watch Luke lose.

Luke, utter asshole that he is, gives them no satisfaction.

When the judge awards sole custody to Crowley, Baize and AZ and Crowley all sag with relief. But Luke wears only the smallest frown, looking more concentrated than unhappy. Even his wife Sarah (Baize finally committed her name to memory, for lack of anything better to do during proceedings) looks more upset than he does, and she’s not exactly a fount of emotion.

Sarah leans toward Luke, touching his arm, but he shakes his head at her and she retreats. Luke mutters for a moment with Duke. (Baize still hates Duke, but they appreciate that at least he has the decency to look disreputable, while Luke presents himself as a _trustworthy family man_.)

“Your Honor,” says Duke. It sounds like a threat. Everything that comes out of his mouth does. “My client has poured his heart and soul” ( _and wallet,_ whispers Baize to Crowley) “into recovering his lost son. Devastated as he is to be denied custody” ( _he looks super fucking devastated,_ Crowley whispers back) “I’m sure he can look forward to frequent, lengthy visits.”

Baize stares at Uriel, willing her to say something withering in return. But Uriel looks to the bench.

“Let’s hear your visitation proposal,” sighs Judge Nutter, eyeing the wall clock. “And I _hope_ we can come to a final agreement today.”

“That is our fervent hope as well.” The malice in Duke’s eyes and voice sends chills down Baize’s spine. They’re certain that he aims to terrorize them. He’s hoping they’ll agree to anything just to get rid of him.

Well, he can dream the fuck on.

Duke continues, “Since my client lives out of state, we expect visits to be substantial in length, to make the most of the time and money spent on the boy’s travel. Mr. Starr hopes to welcome Adam into his home for all holiday weekends, winter breaks, and, of course, summer vacations.”

The ice spreads from Baize’s spine to their heart. They hear Crowley hiss between his teeth, and AZ says a word under his breath that sounds very much like _fuck_.

Uriel quells them all with a glance, then turns to Duke. Her voice is deadly calm. “Let’s talk about that.”

*

The juice bar is stupid. The polished chrome table and matching stools are stupid. Gabriel’s immaculate hair and his kind, concerned expression are stupid. Even the words coming out of Baize’s mouth are incredibly fucking stupid.

“I figured if Luke didn’t get custody, he’d write us all off. I never imagined he’d want Adam to _visit_. He hasn’t even fucking met the kid! At least Uriel bought us some time, but Nutter says the next court date is the absolute last.” Baize slurps an agave-sweetened strawberry smoothie and grimaces. They should pester the bar’s owner about switching to local honey.

“Would it be so terrible for Adam to visit Luke occasionally?” asks Gabriel, sipping from what looks like a glass of pond scum.

“It would, because Luke is fucking terrible.” Baize digs a hand into their hair, making a heroic effort not to take their frustration out on Gabriel. He hasn’t met Luke either, and anyway, this is supposed to be a date.

So far, though, all they’ve done is order drinks and talk about the trial. It’s like their trip to pick up Dog, when Baize rode in Gabriel’s car all the way to the shelter and back without discussing anything beyond the logistics and finances of Adam’s birthday gift. Baize wonders if their own drunken refusal of Gabriel’s request to talk last year somehow became a curse that will prevent the two of them from ever achieving an _adult conversation_.

“See, Luke doesn’t have relationships. He just uses people. And he gets away with it, because he’s confident and sexy.” Baize leans forward on their elbows, eyes trained on the line of Gabriel’s jaw, the curve of his lips. “No offense, but I fucking hate confident, sexy men.” Good, that was clever. A segue into flirtatious banter. Maybe they can make this date go somewhere after all.

But instead of responding with the laugh or blush they’d hoped for, Gabriel frowns. “Baize, I _know_ I’m swimming in privilege. I’m a white cis guy, most people assume I’m straight—”

“Plus the aforementioned confidence and sexiness,” supplies Baize.

He folds his arms. “But that doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated like a piece of meat.”

The accusation, because that’s undoubtedly what it is, jerks Baize upright on their stool like a marionette. “I haven’t been—”

“Since the day we met, Baize.”

They didn’t realize quite how much they liked his nickname for them, until he stopped using it. They want to get back to teasing each other, drop this heavy shit they’ve unwittingly dredged up. “I’m sorry, are you saying that all these years you’ve been _bothered_ by the fact that I find you attractive?”

“I’m bothered that you only seem interested in me for—for sex.” He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing. “And there’s nothing wrong with you wanting that. I’m not saying there is. But if that’s all you want, you’re not going to get it from me.”

“Oh yeah? I’m too weird for you to fuck, right? Is that what you wanted to talk about last year, after we kissed? Let me down gently?”

“That’s not—Jesus, would you just—” Gabriel rubs his hands over his face and heaves a deep sigh. “You always get me so tangled up. Let’s start over: I’m in love with you.”

Baize feels like a dramatic reaction is called for: spitting out their drink, or falling off their chair. Instead, they can’t move, can’t speak, can barely blink as they stare at Gabriel. He’s _what_? With _them_?

“And sex is, well, I don’t mind it. It’s not a big thing for me. I’ve even thought that I’d like to try it with you, but I can’t be friends with benefits, or a booty call, or whatever.” He gives them a meaningful look. “I don’t want to be used.”

Baize’s hands curl into fists on the table. “So I’m like Luke? Is that what you think?”

“I wouldn’t be here with you if you were like Luke.” He sounds much too patient, much too calm. “I’m just pointing out—”

They don’t have to sit here and listen to this. They jump off the stool, shout “Fuck you!” and storm out of Tadfield’s stupidest juice bar.

Back home, they rip off their date clothes. The crimson skinny tie and black button-down land in a corner, followed by capris and fishnets. Not exactly the undressing scenario they’d hoped for. They’d allowed themselves to imagine that the juice might extend into dinner, which might turn into a ride to Gabriel’s house, and, finally, a ride on Gabriel. No such fucking luck. _You’re not going to get it from me._

They throw on a t-shirt and jeans and grab their mite-check kit. It’s been less than a month since they last monitored their hives for disease, and they don’t really need to do it again. But the task is complex enough to distract them from the pit in their stomach and the mess in their head.

As Baize jogs to the first hive, they try to summon a laugh by recalling the hilarious incongruity of Gabriel uttering the words _booty call._ But that memory is eclipsed by sharp stab of _I don’t want to be used_.

Baize pulls up a brood frame and knocks a few hundred bees into their testing jar. They have to shake hard to dislodge the mites, an ideal outlet for violent feelings. Then, after returning the bees to the hive, hunting for the tiny pestilent specks left behind is much easier than putting a name to their emotions. _Let’s start over: I’m in love with you._

They’re on the third hive when Crowley texts, ‘How’d it go?’ Like a damn idiot, they’d told him they had a date today. They brush off their fingers and respond with a vomiting emoji.

Crowley doesn’t take the hint. Or maybe he does. He writes back, ‘AZ made too much lasagna. Bring you some?’

‘Fine.’ Baize chews their lip. They’ve talked about this, Baize and Crowley and AZ, about boundaries and trusting each other and speaking up for their wants and needs. Fucking Crowley is off the table, but that’s not what Baize really needs, anyway. ‘Can you stay over?’

The ‘Sure’ comes so fast he must have planned to already. Baize hates that Crowley knows them so well, wouldn’t have it any other way.

Two hours later, murderous smears of marinara sauce on paper plates are all that’s left of the lasagna, and Baize and Crowley are sprawled in front of the TV. Some historical drama that doesn’t interest either of them is on. Baize has picked up their book and Crowley is scrolling on his phone, his head in Baize’s lap.

Baize twines their fingers through his hair, longer now than he’s worn it for years. Adam cut his curls short for the hot summer months, and AZ shaved his beard for the same reason, itchiness overcoming his aesthetic attachment to it. But Crowley kept growing his hair out. Baize suspects him of clinging to a superstition, conscious or not, that it will help with the court case.

He interrupts their thoughts with the observation, “You’ve been staring at the same page for half an hour.”

Baize yanks his hair in rebuke. What business does he have paying attention to their reading habits while ostensibly looking at Twitter?

Crowley pushes his head into their hand. “Want to read it to me?”

The poem in front of Baize’s face is called “Hay for Gabriel.” They read it, or rather, recite it, because they memorized this one long before tonight. “ _You’ve tied your Gabriel up to a post—hundreds of times you’ve wounded his feathers and his wings. You serve him roast meat; you take him into the hay barn and put straw before him . . ._ ”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Kinky.”

“Shut up.”

“Guess you didn’t get to tie your Gabriel to a post, then. What did happen?”

“We ordered juice. We drank juice.” Baize tosses the book back on the end table. Could Gabriel be their Gabriel, if they wanted him to be? Or have they fucked it up too much? “Gabriel gave me shit for objectifying him, and compared me to fucking Luke.”

“He _said_ that?”

“Well—” Baize hedges. “Not exactly.”

Crowley finds their hand and laces his fingers between theirs. “But you felt like he did? That must’ve been shitty.”

“Yeah.” They stare down at his knobbly knuckles. “I was pissed. I walked out.” _Also, Gabriel said he's in love with me._

They don’t manage to tell Crowley about that part until much later, after they’ve both changed into pajamas and curled up in bed together, Baize’s spine pressed to Crowley’s ribs, Crowley’s chin digging into the top of their head.

After repeating the words in their head about a million times, Baize croaks out loud, “He said he’s in love with me.”

Crowley gasps. “That _asshole_.”

Baize repays his sarcasm with an sharp jab of their elbow. “He _is_. I hate him.”

“I can tell.”

Baize hears the smile in Crowley’s voice, and it makes their throat ache and their eyes sting. With the familiar comfort of his arms around them, they can no longer tamp down the maelstrom of emotion that’s been building for hours. It’s a chaotic jumble of joy and rage and sympathy and humiliation. Gabriel’s smile is burned into their eyes, and so is his frown—opposing afterimages that feel like they’ll be overlaid forever on everything Baize looks at.

How can they be so thoroughly fucked by someone who has never, in actual fact, fucked them?

Baize turns around in Crowley’s arms and buries their face in his skinny chest. If their eyes make a wet spot on his t-shirt, he’s too clever to mention it. They mutter, “Fuck all this talking. Let’s go to sleep.”

In the morning Crowley complains, as he always does, about having to duck under their low shower head to wash his hair. Before they can stop themselves, Baize has already imagined Gabriel squeezing into their shower, and yes, they’re thinking about his hot body spreading their thighs and the cool tile against their back, but they’re also thinking about switching out their shower head for the kind with a hose, so Gabriel can wash his hair more easily, and that’s not something they’ve ever considered doing for Crowley (sorry Crowley) even though Crowley has slept over dozens of times and Gabriel hasn’t slept over once, and fuck, maybe he never _will_ —

“Bee! Hey, Bee!” Crowley’s fingers snap in their face again. “I love you, but I have to go. Are you going to say good-bye or just stare into space?”

They shake themselves back into the moment, down the rest of their coffee, and dump their uneaten toast in the trash. “Give me a ride.”

“Where to?”

Baize steps into their boots. “The Civil Angels office.”

Crowley cocks an eyebrow as he dons his sunglasses. “You know Uriel’s busy, right? She said she’d call us when she gets a chance.”

“I’m not going to talk to Uriel, dumbass.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Right.”

On the drive, Crowley sings along to his music cheerfully and unsubtly: _Find me somebody to love, find me somebody to love._ When they finally arrive at the office, Baize climbs out and gives the car door a vicious slam. Crowley grins at them through the window before driving away.

Baize steps into the lobby. They’ve been here several times to meet with Uriel, and they know which door is Gabriel’s even though they’ve never walked through it. It’s open now. They can see Gabriel seated at his desk, and is he _whistling_? He’s fucking whistling. They grit their teeth, march over, and rap on the door frame.

He stops whistling and glances up. He doesn’t look especially happy to see them, which is a blow—they’ve come to expect that idiotic smile. But he doesn’t look angry, either. He mostly looks confused. “Hello.”

“I’m sorry,” they blurt out, the only words they’ve definitely settled on saying.

“Thank you,” he responds gravely. “And I’m sorry, too. Please come in. If you like.”

Baize wants to close the door behind them, but they’re not sure what kind of message that would send. They don’t want Gabriel to think they’re a creep. So they leave it open, and perch uncomfortably on the chair in front of his desk.

Then they really wish they’d closed the door, because the next words out of their mouth are, “I don’t _only_ want sex from you. I never meant to make you feel that way.”

“Okay. That’s, um. That’s good to know.” Gabriel picks up a pen to spin in his fingers. “I shouldn’t have dumped so much on you yesterday. It was a lot.”

“Yeah. It was.”

Gabriel sits there, spinning the pen.

Baize glares at him. “What now?”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re asking me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fucking asking you. What do you want?”

He squeezes his eyes shut with a sigh, as if their profanity has the power to give him a headache. Then he opens them. “I suppose we could go on as we have been. We’re both part of Adam’s family, and I’d like to think we’re friends.”

“You say that like there’s another option,” Baize snaps. God help them, why are they acting so belligerent?

He eyes them for a long moment, then a smile starts to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I haven’t eaten yet. You could take me out to breakfast—there’s a place around the corner that does great açaí bowls.”

Baize rolls their eyes. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“I will choose to take that as a compliment, although I know you mean it as an insult.” He’s grinning now, the smug bastard.

“Okay, fuck it, I’ll buy you breakfast.” Baize gets to their feet. “But we’re going to Denny’s, because I want syrup and sausages.”

Gabriel laughs and follows them out to the lobby, where Uriel and Michael are fixing each other tea and wearing discreet little smirks.

Baize’s cheeks feel warm, but not as warm as their hand, which Gabriel is suddenly holding. He gives it a squeeze as he nods to his colleagues. Tucked between his wide palm and thick fingers, Baize’s hand feels like a bird in a nest, or a bee in a hive. Sheltered. Safe.

Gabriel’s idiocy must be catching, because they find themselves entertaining the ludicrous notion that everything, against all odds, is going to be all right.

* * *

_NINE YEARS AGO_

Before an apiarist named Newton Pulsifer had wandered into the bank with his hesitant request for a loan, Baize hadn’t given bees much thought one way or another. They’d been stung a couple of times in childhood and hadn’t enjoyed it. Still, they’d scoffed at the kids who screamed and ran from bees as if they were bombs. Besides the fact that they could sting, all Baize had known about bees was that they made honey, a crucial ingredient in their father’s baklava.

But listening to Newton talk about beekeeping had awoken something in Baize. They began to read websites and magazines, they joined a society, and before long they were the one getting a loan—to buy Newton’s farm.

Newton, who’d inherited it from his grandparents, was pathetically grateful to let it go. He’d been longing to move into town and set up a computer repair business.

“I feel _called_ to computers,” he told Baize, as he handed over the keys to the little shack on the property. “You know? Like a higher power has a plan for me.”

With that attitude, Baize thought he’d be better off answering the Help Wanted sign in the window of Tadfield’s crystal and aura-reading shop, but they just shrugged. “Sure. Good luck.”

Baize had been forced to quit their job at the bank a little sooner than they’d planned, due to their supervisor’s _ethical concerns_ about Baize entering a major financial transaction with a client. This time they didn’t drop their name tag in the ranch dressing on the way out—not because they didn’t want to, but because the bank lacked a salad bar.

Newt’s business, before it folded, had been known as Heavenly Honey. To distance themselves from that pecuniary disaster, Baize named their company Hell’s Bees. They liked how fierce it sounded, and they even welcomed the occasional sting, because it reminded them that bees could and did take care of themselves. They were collaborators, not livestock, free to fuck off at any time.

Three-year-old Adam loved the farm. He could run at top speed until he got tired, eat honey whenever he wanted, and fall asleep in the grass to the hum of the hives. Sometimes he and Baize stayed overnight in the shabby one-bedroom farmhouse, when Crowley was out with AZ—although the two lovebirds included Adam in their plans more often than not, preferring garden picnics to dinners at the Ritz.

Not than any of them could afford the Ritz. In fact, Baize and Crowley would have been eager to save money by giving up their apartment and moving entirely onto the farm, but it was too far away from most of Crowley’s clients and Adam’s new preschool.

Then one day AZ tentatively brought up the fact that he lived in a _two-bedroom_ cottage, and perhaps CrowleyandAdamcouldlivetheretoo. Crowley blushed, stammered, and looked at Baize.

Baize hadn’t lived alone since their senior year of college, when they’d finally scored a single room in campus housing. When AZ made his offer, they immediately imagined waking up to silence, instead of shrieking. (Happy shrieking, as Adam was a morning person, but happy or not he was _loud._ ) They thought of sleeping in a bed with all the pillows and blankets to themselves. They considered the novel concept of everything staying wherever they put it.

They gave notice to the apartment manager that night.

“Why can’t we _all_ go live with the bees?” asked Adam for the tenth or maybe the ten millionth time, while the adults packed up the apartment.

“It’s way out in the boonies, kid,” said Crowley, extracting Adam from a box full of towels and sheets. “Bee is going to be a feral monster, and you and me are going to stay civilized.”

Baize growled and bared their teeth to make Adam scream with delight. “Besides,” they added, digging in their memory for the names of his new school friends. “You don’t want to move too far away from Lily, right? Or Brian?”

“Oh! Brian and me are gonna have a sleepover! We planned it all out.”

Crowley smiled wryly. “Yeah, just as soon as you both sleep through the night without bed-wetting or night terrors.”

“Which is sure to be soon, so you should stay close to him,” Baize concluded. “And you’ll visit me and the bees all the time. And I’ll visit you.”

“And we get to live with AZ,” Crowley reminded Adam, who immediately stopped trying to get back in the box and barreled across the room to where AZ was wrapping plates and mugs.

“And _I_ get to live with _you._ ” AZ smiled and set his work aside to welcome Adam onto his lap.

“You’re going to read me a bedtime story every night, right?” This was a huge deal for Adam, who could count on bedtime hugs from Baize and Crowley, but often missed a story when they were too tired.

“Every night that you want me to,” AZ promised. “With certain exceptions, as discussed.”

“You can take a night off if you get sick,” repeated Adam solemnly. “And you might hafta go out, but you’ll tell me before, and record a story for me to listen to while you’re gone.”

“That’s right.” AZ hugged him. “But you know, it’s okay to be sad about living apart from Baize. I know you love them very much.”

Baize scowled and blinked rapidly, turning their attention to the enormous potted snake plant that Crowley had found abandoned on the street and nursed back to health. “What’s your plan for this, Crow? It’s not going to fit in the Bentley. Garbage disposal?”

“Never! You devil! Shh, don’t listen to them,” he said, stroking a leaf tenderly. “Gabriel is bringing his car around to help us move. It’s a convertible, so you can sit in the front seat. _Baby_.”

Baize hadn’t met AZ’s brother yet, but apparently that joy was about to be inflicted on them. “Gabriel—isn’t he a lawyer? And he drives a convertible? Jesus.”

“What’s a con-ter-vible?” asked Adam.

“It’s a magic trick,” said AZ in a conspiratorial whisper. “You know how most cars have roofs? Well, Gabriel pushes a button inside his car, and whoosh! The roof disappears!”

“Wow! Can I see it?”

“Of course. Let’s go out and watch for him.” AZ guided Adam through the sliding doors onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the street.

“Hell of a lucky break for us,” breathed Baize. “Quick, tape up that box so Adam can’t climb in again.”

Crowley scoffed. “It’s not _luck_ , Bee. AZ knows how to help out.”

Baize dropped their head in silent apology. They had to admit they didn’t give AZ enough credit, although they were learning to do so. He’d turned out to be, as advertised, fairly angelic, and they’d just about stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A half-dozen boxes later, they heard Adam's excited shout. “There it is! There he is!”

Baize resisted the urge to crowd onto the balcony for a look, so their first impression of Gabriel came when he stepped through the open front door. His arrival made the apartment, which had seemed almost empty, abruptly and uncomfortably full. He was much taller than AZ, with broad shoulders that made Baize swallow hard. He wore spotless linen slacks and a baby-blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms were very fucking distracting.

“Hey, AZ,” said Gabriel, with a smile nearly as broad as his shoulders. “Hi, Crowley. Hi, Adam!”

“Whyn’t you tell me you had a magic car?” demanded Adam.

Gabriel laughed and ruffled his hair. Baize was irritated by the reminder that Adam had met Gabriel before them, although it was their own fault for turning down every dinner invitation as they scrambled to get Hell’s Bees in the black.

“You must be Baize!” cried Gabriel, extending his hand. “It’s wonderful to meet the beekeeper at last. Did you hear about the man who ordered twelve bees, but the beekeeper delivered thirteen?”

Baize stared without taking the offered hand. He took their silence as encouragement to continue. “The man asked, why did you give me an extra? And the beekeeper answered, that’s a _freebie_!”

AZ gave a tired smile and Adam merely looked puzzled, but Crowley laughed out loud. That fucking traitor.

Baize raked their eyes contemptuously from Gabriel’s stylish hair to his polished shoes. “Well, at least you’re pretty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MerenwenNolat for the terrible bee joke. ;)
> 
> Ahhhhh there's only one more chapter! I can't thank you enough for reading; this fic has been kicking my ass and I'm not sure I'd be finishing it, if not for your kind gifts of kudos and comments.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The best of loves has many trials,_   
>  _A real lover doesn’t flee love’s tests._   
>  _But, when love reaches deep in the soul,_   
>  _to surrender your life becomes the foreplay._   
>  _-Rumi_

Judge Agnes Nutter isn’t hung over. She has a headache, but only because she’s sick to death of this custody trial. Her mouth is dry, but that’s the air conditioning in this blasted courtroom. She sips from the water at her elbow, pushes the glasses up her nose, and scowls at the assembled lawyers and clients.

So Agnes emptied a bottle of wine by herself last night. That’s something you’re allowed to do when you’re seventy-fuck-off years old and contemplating retirement.

Her granddaughter Anathema would give her shit for drinking alone, but Anathema also likes to talk about auras and ley lines, so Agnes would shovel the shit right back. Anathema has always been Agnes’ favorite grandchild. They’re both outspoken women, eager to deliver their opinions as verdicts, though one does it from a court bench and the other from a shop counter.

Anathema would certainly have a few opinions about this case. She’d curse that creep Hastur right out the door and inform the Starrs where they could shove their petition. She’d order Crowley to find a therapist, demand that Fell share the hot cocoa he keeps smuggling in, and tell Zebul to stop ogling their attorney and get laid.

This morning, though, Baize is barely looking at Uriel. They’re draped over the backrest of the bench in front of them, arms dangling, gaze distant. To Agnes’ critical eye, they seem bored, but they’re wound tight enough to snap. Their phone feels like it’s burning a hole in their pocket, but they force themselves not to send one more text, not to check the time yet again.

Just a few feet away, across the aisle, Luke reclines in his seat, appearing every bit as casual as Baize, and feeling every bit as tense. This was supposed to be easy, like everything else in his life. A pile of money, a pound of confidence, and he gets his way. The Bailey he remembers wouldn’t have cared enough to put up a fight. She might even have given him a blowjob for old times’ sake.

Now he glances at the hard line of Baize’s jaw, their flinty blue eyes, and he wonders what changed. It’s got to be more than the gender thing. Is it the bees?

Luke hadn’t expected Crowley to still be in the picture, guessed he’d have self-destructed by now in one way or another. But here he is—well, today, here _she_ is. Sarah, accustomed to being far and away the most feminine person in the courtroom, was visibly startled when Crowley showed up in vivid pink lipstick, heeled boots, and a shimmering snakeskin dress. Luke still can’t imagine how such a beauty landed with a frumpy old bookseller. Fell doesn’t have enough money for that to be the reason. Maybe he’s got hidden talents in the bedroom.

Crowley and AZ, who know perfectly well what they mean to each other, press close together on the bench. AZ rests his hand on Crowley’s bony knee, which keeps bouncing up and down. He’d give anything for the love of his life not to be going through this, but he’s got faith they’ll make it out the other side.

Faith in their lawyer, faith in the judge, but most of all, faith in Adam.

At ten fifteen on the dot, the boy bursts into the courtroom. The slam of the door interrupts Hastur’s enumeration of proposed modifications to the visiting schedule. He stops and stares, along with everyone else, as Adam trots down the aisle. Gabriel is following close behind.

Agnes has no idea who the kid is, but she recognizes Gabriel and begins to tear into him for interrupting a case he’s got nothing to do with. Gabriel starts explaining. Adam raises his voice to talk over both of them.

“I’m Adam Young, and I got a couple things to say.”

A rush of possessive pride fills Luke’s chest. With his clean jeans and plain white t-shirt, golden curls and charming smile, Adam could have walked out of Luke’s childhood photo albums. Luke leans across the aisle and murmurs to Baize, “Can you look at him now and say he’s ‘probably Crowley’s’?”

“No.” Before Luke can savor the satisfaction, they add, “Now I look at him and say he’s _definitely_ Crowley’s.”

Luke might have snapped at them, but Gabriel’s in the way now now, sliding onto the bench next to Baize as they make room for him. He ignores Luke, smiles at Baize, and rests his hand on the smooth wood between them, palm up.

It’s an offer. An invitation. Baize can leave it there, and nothing bad will happen. Because they know that, they can slip their hand into his, palm to palm, fingers interlocking. Gabriel’s skin feels cooler than usual, almost clammy, and Baize realizes that he’s as nervous as they are.

Adam is the only one on his feet now, except for Hastur, who gapes at him in disbelief. Children don’t show up to their own custody hearings, as a rule. Especially not unannounced.

Adam knows he needs to seize the floor in this brief window of surprise. He catches Crowley’s eye, drinks in her encouraging smile, then turns to the other side. “Okay, so you’re Duke Hastur, the lawyer, right? And you two must be Luke and Sarah Starr?”

“And I’m Judge Nutter,” adds the judge dryly.

“Oh, right, sorry!” Adam takes a deep breath and delivers his practiced opening statement. “Your Honor, I’d like to ask Mr. Starr a question.”

Agnes peers at the boy. She should tell Gabriel to take him out of here. She should berate Uriel for the major disruption of court procedure. She should let Hastur get back to whatever he was saying. But she is, frankly, too intrigued. This case just pivoted from dull to delightful. “Go ahead, Adam. Mr. Hastur, you may sit down. And close your mouth before you catch a fly.”

Hastur’s eyes suggest murder, but he takes a seat.

Adam turns squarely to face Luke. “Why now?” he demands. “Mom and Bee haven’t heard a word from you for twelve years. Why’d you come looking for me now?”

Luke stands and spreads his arms in a disarming gesture. His face lights up with a smile so carefully calculated to exude kindness that Baize has to look away before they throw up. They grip Gabriel’s hand like a life preserver.

Luke’s voice is as warm as his smile. “Adam, it’s a joy to meet you at last. I’m so glad you came today, even if it is a bit—ha!—unorthodox.” He winks. “You’ve got initiative, just like me.”

“I asked you a question,” says Adam woodenly.

“That’s right, a very important question. The thing is, Adam, not a year has gone by since you were born that I haven’t thought of you, and wanted to see you. But I knew that I couldn’t provide for you. All this time I’ve been working hard to make the home you deserve. As soon as I had a secure financial position, a comfortable house, and a loving wife, I knew the time was right.”

When he says _wife,_ he reaches for Sarah, but she misses the cue and and leaves his hand hanging. After an awkward beat, he rests it on her shoulder and keeps talking. “We can’t wait to share all we have with you, Adam. In fact, you’re just in time to hear the plan for your visits. I bet you’ve never flown first-class before!”

“Actually,” says Sarah. It’s so unusual for her to speak in court that her soft voice immediately draws the room’s attention. “Luke and I have been trying to start a family for a long time. We found out at the beginning of the year that we can’t— _I_ can’t—have children. So that’s why now, Adam. I think he should know,” she adds quickly, defensively, with a glance up at Luke. He’s squeezing her shoulder a little too hard, but hanging on to his Genuine Smile.

Adam isn’t surprised by this revelation. He’s been listening to his parents speculate for months now. “Thanks for clearing that up,” he says, and then plunges into his prepared material.

“Here’s what I think about family. Sometimes it’s the people you’re born to, and sometimes it’s the people you meet along the way, but it’s always the people who put in the work. Once when I was sleeping over at my friend Brian’s house, his baby sister woke up screaming in the middle of the night. His folks had to take turns walking around the living room, holding her. They couldn’t put her down or she’d start screaming again, so they just walked and walked and walked, for hours I guess. Me ‘n Brian went back to sleep, of course. When we got up, his parents were already making breakfast for us, even though they’d never gone back to bed. And it was a _fun_ breakfast, with chocolate chip faces in the pancakes and everything.”

Hastur mutters about irrelevance, but Adam keeps going. “That’s why Crowley’s my mom. I don’t care if she gave birth to me or contribued genetic material or whatever. She’s been putting in the work since day one. I’ve thrown up on her twice—”

“Lots more than that, kid, you just don’t remember,” mumbles Crowley.

“—and she still hugs me when I’m sick and lets me crawl into bed with her. Don’t worry, Luke, I’m not even going to _ask_ if you’d do that.” Adam snorts. “And that’s why AZ is my dad, because he decided to put in the work, too. He made his house _our_ house, without any excuses about needing a bigger one first. He sold some of his favorite books to pay for me to fly to the debate nationals, and no, it wasn’t first-class, and I don’t _care_.”

Adam looks away from Luke, back at his people. “And there’s Bee, of course. They don’t want to be called Mom or Dad, and that’s fine. I call them my cousin sometimes, but the point is, they’re family. _My_ family. They taught me to ride a bike and build a beehive. When I was little, they used to read me poetry. They helped me memorize and recite for school, and that’s what got me into speech and debate. I still remember the first couplet I learned from them. It's by Rumi.”

He closes his eyes to recite, “ _The wit taught by God to the bee /_ _i_ _s withheld from the lion and the wild ass._ ” Then he opens his eyes. “I liked it because I got to say ‘ass.’”

The court ripples with laughter. Even Agnes cracks a smile.

Adam turns to Luke again. “My point is, Bee and Mom and Dad have the wit to know what kids need. You obviously don’t. And I’m not going to visit any wild ass. Not for a weekend. Not for an hour. Not _ever_.” He heaves in a breath, and it comes out all shaky. “Your Honor, I’m going to sit down now.”

He stumbles over to the bench and collapses onto Crowley. She hasn’t held him on her lap for years, but she hasn’t forgotten how. She wraps her arms around her boy, tight enough that it’s not clear which of them is trembling, and she breathes into his hair, _love you, love you, love you_. AZ hugs the pair of them from one side, and Baize from the other.

Across the aisle, Luke and Hastur are whispering. Gabriel leans over Adam and his family to speak quietly with Uriel. She nods and begins to stand up, but Hastur beats her to it.

“Your Honor,” he growls. “My client would like to withdraw his petition.”

Agnes takes a long drink of water. She considers the fact that a child should not have shown up and spoken in court without prior vetting, she considers the paperwork that will need to be served, but mostly she considers twelve-year-old Adam Young, who’s going to make an incredible laywer someday, and perhaps even a worthy judge.

The future of the court is in good hands. She can retire, after this.

“All right,” says Agnes. “Mr. Starr, we’ll consider your custody claim dismissed, so long as Mr. Hastur files the correct papers forthwith. Ms. Santos, there won’t be any disciplinary action for today’s procedural breach, but consider yourself reprimanded.”

“Severely, Your Honor,” replies Uriel, deadpan.

“Ms. Crowley, see to it that you finalize the adoption. And Mr. Fell, your cocoa has undoubtedly gone cold.” Agnes bangs her gavel. “Case dismissed.”

* * *

Outside the courthouse is a curious scene. Inside, no one could exit quickly enough, all of them eager to leave this drama behind, but in the sun, on the grass, they linger.

Luke has _no_ desire to stay, after being so thoroughly repulsed by the child he vows to no longer think of as his son. But he can’t leave without Sarah, and Sarah just walked blithely up to Crowley and complimented her dress.

Crowley, with AZ’s arm warm and steady around her waist, talks easily about the year’s fashions, the return of animal prints, the silver serpentine earrings that were a gift from AZ. The conversation turns to relationships. It’s light on the surface, but underneath Sarah is really asking, _What was it like, just driving away from_ _Luke_ _?_ and Crowley is answering, _It was exactly what I needed to do._

Meanwhile, Uriel is chatting with Hastur. The discussion started with paperwork, but Uriel has an ulterior motive. A few weeks ago, Michael let slip that she’d gone to school with both Hastur and his partner Ligur. When Uriel mentions to Hastur now that Michael is her partner, he sniggers, “It’s a small fucking world.” He puts such an emphasis on _fucking_ that Uriel sets out to politely and tenaciously extract all the information Hastur possesses of those bygone school days.

Luke stands alone by his Mercedes, writing e-mails on his phone like the important businessman he is. He doesn’t want company, but Adam is marching toward him with Baize and Gabriel in tow.

“You _know_ Mom and Dad are going to forget again,” Adam is saying to his chaperones. “I want to take care of it right now.”

A handful of papers are shoved between Luke’s face and his phone as Adam declares, “You need to sign off on my adoption.”

Luke sighs at the interruption. He’s already moved on, why can’t everyone else? He carefully pockets his phone, takes the papers, and looks over Adam’s head at the adults. Baize scowls back at him. Their perennial bad temper contrasts sharply with the jovial smile of the man at their side, the one who brought Adam to court.

“I’m Gabriel, Adam’s uncle,” the man introduces himself. “AZ is my brother.”

Luke takes him in, tall and handsome and stylish. “Really? You’re related to that f—”

“To my _beloved_ little brother, yes.” The smile is suddenly less jovial. “What were you going to say about him?”

Baize almost claps their hands in glee. They’d fucking love to see a showdown between Gabriel and Luke, but they have a job to do here. “Down, Gabe,” they say, patting his arm as they pull the pen out of his shirt pocket and hand it to Luke. “Go on, sign it, you wild ass.”

“I suppose I can help you with this, since you asked so _nicely_.” Luke wants to sound magnanimous, but it’s hard not to snarl. He scribbles his name on the line next to Baize’s signature, and finds the smallest satisfaction in it. “So you’re giving up the boy, too.”

“Makes more sense for the folks he lives with to be his legal guardians. And he’ll still visit me all the time.” That’s salt in the wound, but Luke deserves it, and Baize would say it even if he didn’t.

“Yup, all the time,” echoes Adam. He takes the papers back from Luke. “If _you_ ever try to make me visit you again, I’ll burn your fucking house down.”

Gabriel gasps, rather theatrically. “Adam! Threats and bad language! Someone should tell your father.” His tone is stern, but his eyes are twinkling.

Luke’s face twists sourly. Baize grins. “Yeah, Adam, let’s go tell your _father_. I bet he’ll be pleased.”

Adam dances across the grass to his parents. Baize and Gabriel link hands as they follow him. None of them look back at Luke even once.

* * *

_A FEW MONTHS LATER_

“Holy fucking shit,” gasps Baize, the first coherent words they’ve managed for some time. Their pulse is still drumming double-time, while their brain feels like it’s been replaced with three pounds of honey. Their thoughts are slow and sticky and sweet. _I really . . ._ _like . . ._ _Gabriel. He’s . . . nice._

Gabriel stretches out beside them, covering most of the bed. He’s sweaty and breathing hard, but it’s the same way he’s sweaty and breathing hard after a jog. He doesn’t look anywhere near as wrecked as Baize feels.

“Was it any good for you?” they ask, a hint of trepidation creeping into their voice.

“It was fun.” His shining sincerity makes it sound worlds apart from the same statement uttered by anyone else they’ve hooked up with. “I like making you feel good, Buzz. And I love to see you like this. Soft. Sweet.”

He brushes the damp hair back from Baize’s forehead and tucks a few strands behind their ear. They roll their eyes. “I’m not sweet.”

“I hate to contradict, but I did just have my tongue inside you, so I think I would know.” For a moment he looks extremely pleased with himself, then it’s his turn to hesitate. “I might not—I don’t know how often I can do this, though.”

Baize shrugs. Gabriel already asked to take their physical relationship slowly, which is why it’s almost March and they’ve only just fucked for the first time. Waiting for sex wasn’t as hard as Baize had expected. Winter kept them busy with workshops and conferences, recruiting souls for their vendor list, while Gabriel was on the road more often than not, fundraising and advocating. The long stretches without seeing each other were hard, not because of the lack of sex, but because of the lack of _Gabriel_. But Baize hasn't found any way of adequately expressing that fact, to themselves or to him.

“Don’t worry about it,” they tell him. “I’m in the habit of one fuck a year, anyway.”

Gabriel laughs and pulls them close, nuzzling their hair. “I could try for a slightly greater frequency than that. I assume you masturbate often?”

Baize is glad to be looking at his chest (stupid, beautiful chest) instead of his face. Of the two of them, why is Gabriel more at ease talking about these things? They clear their throat. “Yeah, I mean, sure. I’ve got some toys.” Although they rarely reach beyond the reliable vibe in the bedside drawer.

“Do you use bees?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Baize jerks their head back to stare at him.

Gabriel’s expression is open and curious. “I’ve heard that Cleopatra invented the first vibrator, when she stimulated herself with a jar full of bees.”

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

“Michael and Uriel have interesting conversations on their tea breaks.”

“No wonder you leave your door open.” Baize yawns, falling back into post-coital relaxation. “Well, my vibe runs on batteries, not bees.”

Gabriel starts to poke around the bedside table, uninvited. Baize thinks about telling him off, but they’re too comfortable and lazy. It doesn’t take him long to find it. “I’ve never used one of these.”

“It’s not exactly designed for your anatomy,” they toss back. Then they notice the gleam in his eyes. They groan, pressing their thighs together. “Oh, no. Fuck, not now. I can’t take anymore.”

He holds up the toy between them, a flirtatious threat as the fingers of his other hand walk over their belly. “Can’t you?”

“I—I—” Their breath is hitching, their skin prickling with heat. “Fucking hell, Gabriel.”

He hasn’t mentioned _love_ since the disastrous conversation in the juice bar, because Baize told him they need to take that part of the relationship slowly too. But there are times when his eyes, his voice, his whole demeanor shout his feelings. It’s happening now, as he smiles at them with impossible tenderness and asks, “Do you want to try?”

Baize swallows, and nods.

He flicks the vibrator on and slides it over their thigh. It’s both familiar and strange, a well-known sensation directed by a hand not their own. No one but Baize has ever held their vibe before. Seeing it dwarfed by Gabriel’s huge hand is strangely intimate. He’s taking his time, making a leisurely exploration, and they’re already shaking, feet pushing against his legs for purchase, fingers twisting up the sheets.

“You know, Buzz,” says Gabriel conversationally, “After Adam’s speech, I thought I should look for more poetry about bees.”

“I s-swear if you’re about to recite a f-fucking limerick—”

He shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, no. I found some beautiful lines from Kahlil Gibran, and—oh, this really does things to you, doesn’t it? Here, you can hold on to me. As tight as you like.” The rich rumble of his voice harmonizes with the buzz of the vibrator. “ _For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life_ , _and to the flower a bee is a messenger of love._ ”

Baize claws at his shoulders as he teases them closer and closer to the edge. It’s agony, it’s everything they want, and they know Gabriel knows it.

“ _And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need—_ ”

“Oh shit, oh fuck, fuck, _Gabriel_!”

“— _and an ecstasy_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cleopatra’s beebrator is, alas, [pure myth](https://mistakinghistories.wordpress.com/2017/08/08/cleopatra-and-the-vibrator-powered-by-bees/). Most of the Rumi quotations are from [this book](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13018309-the-rumi-daybook). Here's the [Kahlil Gibran poem](https://poets.org/poem/pleasure-0).
> 
> Enormous, tremendous, endless thanks for reading. This fic ate my brain more thoroughly than any other I’ve written to date, and it’s been an utter delight sharing it with you. I’d love to chat in the comments or on [tumblr](https://melibemusca.tumblr.com/).


End file.
